The Doubtful Guest
by MekkaBabble
Summary: Denmark makes a misstep that sends him abroad for a little All-American re-education. Iceland appears to be here, there,and everywhere he shouldn't be. The way back home is going to be a long and winding road...
1. A Formel Lunch

A/N: Two chapters from completing this monster; I decided the plot was lazy and way too linear. Not to mention, I was being a jerk to every country I cast. If you're expecting a brand new story, you're going to be disappointed, but if you're in the mood for the same package with neater wrapping, that's exactly what I aim to accommodate!

New material begins chapter 3 if you want to skip ahead. Now go forth and enjoy!

Denmark just returned from a weekend with the Netherlands. It was an unusually good trip so he was in an unusually generous mood. Sunday afternoon, en route from Amsterdam, he contacted Sweden and Norway and told them to convene at Formel B, one of Copenhagen's most modern, innovative, and expensive restaurants for a late lunch- his treat. Initially, his two best buddies couldn't be more thrilled. Formel B had fantastic repute and a Michelin Star. In their zeal, they managed to forget one of the principle laws of economics- there's no such thing as a free lunch.

The meal had an agenda. Denmark didn't tell them that though. He waited until they ordered. Norway picked Dover Sole, a lemony flavored flatfish that didn't appear on too many menus anymore and Sweden found spiced rock shrimp. Denmark hardly looked at the offerings before making his selection and ended up with some type of stew and a round of drinks for them all. It was a promising start.

Denmark wasn't interested in food; he was after a captive audience and people, as a rule, once seated somewhere comfortable with good food and beverages, were reluctant to move. It was more humane than Finland's strategy, which involved chaining people in a basement and involving them in a complicated and deadly game of charades. Many times, they had been in that exact situation, a knife or axe to their throats until they guessed through excruciating trial and error just what he wanted. Denmark preferred his own approach.

As such, he spent little time eating, but did devote some of it to drinking (there were two bottles of wine and two pitchers of beer between the three of them to start) and more of it to talking. Sweden and Norway were honored to listen.

"Netherlands made his special brownies. This time though, he _had _to have put in extra hash and you guys already know he's a tri-sexual."

"Tri-sexual?" Sweden raised an eyebrow.

"Yup. Try anything sexual."

Norway tolerated it with polite indifference. He'd gotten text updates as it happened, so he knew how the story ended. This exact scenario, with few variations, played out every time Netherlands and Denmark did anything. Nevertheless, Denmark treated it like a new experience at each familiar turn. He enjoyed that Denmark was enjoying himself. Plus, Dover Sole was really good and the seats were comfortable. Those forces combined meant he planned to go nowhere fast.

"So we make plans to go to the Red Light district that night. He told me there was this brunette there that was _way_ hotter than your sister, Sweden." he paused to contentedly to take a sip of wine. It was a sip far bigger than what fine wine warranted. In fact, it was more of a chug. He should've stuck to beer. "We rode our bikes through Amsterdam and got caught at a stop sign, but were so baked we sat there for an hour waiting for it to turn green. We missed our appointment with the prostitute and decided to just go back to his place…" Whereas Norway didn't care, Sweden looked as though he was about to spit out some ale and turned a lovely shade of fuchsia. Through it all, Denmark continued.

"I asked him if I should be paying him, but he refused. But it worked out well because I saved that money and we can eat –BLACK RAMBO!" Just like that, Denmark came to an abrupt and inappropriate pause and grinned expansively. Norway decided earlier that his meal was far too delicious to eat with utensils, but quit licking his fingers to watch Denmark. He followed his best friend's line of sight and beamed too.

Sweden pertly adjusted his glasses. He'd seen those looks twice before. "Norway, not that I'm not _dying_ to hear the rest of Denmark's sexcapades," he deadpanned, "but please tell me what 3rd world nation is behind me this time."

Norway sucked in a deep breath and admired his half-demolished plate. There was most certainly a country glowering at them. To make matters infinitely tenser, he was armed with bullets, a machete (with dried blood on the blade and ivory handle), and a machine gun slung over his back. Norway glanced at this country and battled his own ignorance for an educated guess. If Norway had done more research, he'd have known he sat facing the burly, surly, curly-haired Democratic Republic of the Congo, formerly known as Zaire, formerly known as the Belgian Congo, formerly known as the African Congo Free State. Norway would know this was a country that gave him _a lot_ of coffee. Norway would know his flag symbolized peace and hope, the blood of the martyrs, wealth and prosperity, and a brilliant future for the country. Norway would know this country really knew how to pick a fight. Norway would know the correct answer to Sweden's prompt was an enthused 'Monsieur Democratic Republic of the Congo! My brother from another mother! So kind of you to brave your way this far north. We want to discuss potential business partnerships! Have a seat, s'il-vous plait.' Norway would know… actually, never mind. This joke is dead.

All these subtleties floated farther over his head than the northern lights. "I um, I can't see the flag." He lied lamely.

Democratic Republic of the Congo didn't like that answer. In one singular motion, he seized his machete and cleaved the table in two. "You know," he said, sneering, "All of you would _die_ from Ebola if you visited me." He leaned in close to Denmark. "You call me by my name or I will cart you down to Africa and throw you in the jungle to be eaten by my gorillas!" Democratic Republic of the Congo could've meant guerrillas, too. They lived all over his jungle and probably wouldn't shirk our Scandinavian boys as a food source, if offered. This is especially true if they were braised with pumpkin and served with a side of palm nuts.

"Don'tsayanything don'tsayanything don'tsayanything," Sweden mumbled like a mantra.

"What was that you frail, pasty worm?" He flexed his bicep, easily as thick as Sweden's thigh.

Sweden inhaled irregular gulps of air. Going on sound alone, it wouldn't be far-fetched to believe that his water broke and he was headed into labor. That was what? The third time Denmark's unintentional racism had brought them within a hairsbreadth of being flayed? He had a way to diffuse the situation though, one Denmark would deplore.

"Actually," Sweden said, recomposing himself, "I asked if you'd to sit with us." Denmark had vacated his seat and taken it upon himself to wrap around Norway's legs, effectively binding him to his chair and killing them both if it came time to run. To return the favor, Norway ground his nails into Denmark's shoulders.

"Sweden," Denmark said, his voice soaked with trepidation, "What the fu- OW!" Sweden dealt him a swift kick under the table.

"Can you tell me more about Ebola? I've never heard of it." Sweden glared pointedly at Denmark. "My friend just got back in town and was sick all last week. That's how it starts, right? With a cold?" That part was true. Denmark did have a cold last week _and_ didn't bother covering his mouth when he coughed.

"But of course," Democratic Republic of the Congo re-sheathed his weapon insofar as it was possible. There was no sheath per se, but he did shove it back into his belt. "Ebola has a high mortality rate. First, it starts off as a rash and a cold."

"Just like my friend had, when we hung out at the beach." Sweden pressed on. Denmark also had gotten sunburned earlier. A vengeful sadist hid behind those nerdy glasses.

"Then you get a sore throat."

"Hm, he had that too." Sweden said. Denmark fidgeted against Norway.

"Stomachache sometimes," Democratic Republic of the Congo mused.

"Sweden," Norway said, "what the-"

"OW!" It should be noted the 'ow' came from Denmark again. Sweden aimed to kick Norway's shin to silence him and nailed Denmark's kidney instead.

"How you feeling down there, Denmark?" Sweden asked.

"Actually," Denmark made a terrified moan, "I feel a like I'm gonna throw up a little."

"Tell me," Sweden stood up so quickly his chair fell backwards, grinning a perfectly evil grin "what happens next!"

"You bleed out of every conceivable orifice- your nose, ears, mouth, eyes… then you collapse and die while fully conscious! High five!" Democratic Republic of the Congo jumped up too, wafting his open palm between Norway and Sweden. Neither took the bait.

Under the table, Denmark shaded whiter than a Siberian winter. "Guys," he whimpered, "Do you think I have Ebola? I don't wanna bleed out of my eyes."

Democratic Republic of the Congo gripped Denmark's throat. "Hm, your skin feels clammy and your pulse is high. Your blood pressure may already be dropping. Don't bother going to a doctor," he laughed, "there's no cure!"

"Do I have time to go home and make a living will?"

Sweden caught himself wringing his hands in utter glee. One trait of Denmark's he truly appreciated was his ability to trust. For example, he many a time had considered pointing out to Denmark that the word gullible was scrawled somewhere on his ceiling just to watch him try to find it. Norway was significantly less amused and tried to stand. When that failed, he tried prying Denmark off his legs. When that failed, he glared at Sweden. When that failed, he played with his fish.

"I should say you've got a few hours." Sweden said and extended a hand to Democratic Republic of the Congo. "Thank you, sir! It's been a pleasure."

In turn, Democratic Republic of the Congo clapped Sweden's back hard enough to knock him forward into the mess of a table. "No problem! Now, could you direct me to Belgium? He and I are going to have a calm, diplomatic talk." He loaded a road of bullets into his machine gun and panned it over the Scandinavians. Two hands in tandem pointed southwest. Denmark had finally released his grip on Norway and mopped the sweat collecting on his brow.

"Guys," he sobbed. "I'm sorry. I'm going to go home. No way I'll have you both bleed to death 'cause you got Ebola from me."

Norway pursued him successfully for a few meters before Denmark wrenched out of his grasp and sprinted through the streets of Copenhagen. By the time he returned, Sweden had bid farewell to Democratic Republic of the Congo and sat slumped in his chair, positively drained.

"You're a dick," said Norway.

"No, Denmark's an idiot." Sweden retorted.

"That's not what I'm talking about," Norway replied. "I understand you fight. The same way I understand that we're going to his house to tell him that there's no way he has Ebola." Sweden screwed his eyes shut and pinched his forehead. "Don't be like that, you started this."

"Clearly," Sweden said, " but Denmark was going to pay. Now he's gone. I only have a few hundred Kronor on me."

Norway dropped his shoulders in defeat. "I only brought my keys. What do you think we should do?"

"Dine and dash like delinquent teens?" He ventured, gauging Norway's reaction.

Norway peered around for a few tense seconds, waiting, just waiting for a literal answer to fly in his face. It was a wonder he was surprised and appalled when one came. The irate Maitre'd finally responded to the disturbance our heroes inflicted upon his prestigious clientele. He charged them, cursing liberally in Danish with a vicious looking butcher knife aimed right at their rapidly beating hearts. Sweden and Norway shared a moment, giving the other a dull look. They had already gone through this once today with Finland. People could get used to anything, apparently.

"I'll race you." He finally said. Norway attitudinized a running stance hoping, praying his long stride could move him out of harm's way all over again. Then, with the speed of a whip crack, he was off. Sweden sprinted not far behind, closing the gap. Through many travails and much gnashing of teeth, he matched Norway's pace.

"Listen," he panted to Norway, both of them flagging after minutes of running. "Before we go talk to Denmark, I need to run something by you. I've been doing some thinking and need your opinion."

"Okay," Norway tilted his head, curious. What harm was listening? Denmark had run wee wee wee all the way home and only suspected he was tainted with one of the most unholy, horrible diseases to ever be identified with no one around to abate persistent visions of his own demise. Nope, there was absolutely _no drama whatsoever _inherent in this situation. Everything was going to be _just fine_.


	2. First Steps

_A/N: Alright my friends! Pay attention or you might miss something._

One hour later…

Norway lay in the sand, nearly immersed in the brackish water of Denmark's beach, the ebb and flow of the ocean tide embracing him. He held fast to a fresh fish (he made a point to replace the one he toted around every few weeks or so, when its insides rotted to stringy pulp).

"_Norway…"_ A far off voice drifted. Even in the middle of the day, he caught himself dozing off. If his best friend weren't operating under the assumption he would languish from Ebola, things would be perfect. Maybe he should take care of that.

"Norway," The voice called again, much more insistent. He shaded his eyes with his free hand. Sweden peered down at him. "We need to talk."

"Are we having relationship trouble, honey?" He giggled and passed Sweden the new fish. It still convulsed.

"Um, thanks." Sweden held it at arm's length and raised it above Norway's head until the other country finally sat up to take it back. "This is serious. Does Denmark seem like he's being more…" What was the word? It didn't exist in Swedish or English. Not in the dictionaries he owned, anyways. He wasn't aware of it, but Sweden was hunting for an utterance in the Khosa clicking language that translated roughly to heartless, vain, insensitive, insane, and international disgrace. Never once has the word been written down, and roughly 4,200 people on Earth actually _knew_ it. None of them shared it with Sweden. Given these limitations, he did what he could. "I don't know, more… Denmark than usual?"

Norway considered the possibility. He assumed Sweden referenced their last EU meeting. Denmark had convinced him to tag along for moral support while he pitched a new proposal with Belgium.

_Poke. Poke. Poke. King Europe scooted closer to Norway, all the while tapping him with that insufferable stick. Norway considered himself infinitely patient, but even his tolerance was whittling to a nub. Mercifully, Netherlands snatched the stick from King Europe, staked his sleeve to the oak table, and hurled it Denmark's way._

_"Alright, everyone! Listen up! I've got the talking stick!" Denmark shouted over the din. Seeing no other countries jumping to attention, Belgium sounded an air horn. Norway was grateful for the reprieve in spite of the insistent ringing between his ears. "It's been brought to my attention that not everyone is reading our security reports in full or at all, myself included." Denmark clambered on top of an overstuffed leather chair. King Europe ignored the impending bid, choosing instead to twirl at Norway's chin fuzz._

"_My thought, seconded by Belgium, is that we need to start publishing security briefings in comic book form instead of pages upon pages of really boring text." _

_Nobody responded. Norway doubted anyone but him heard thanks to America, who pounded insistently on the window and demanded that he be allowed in to play with his friends. That he had a really cool video of Russia chasing Georgia around with a dead rat on a stick. King Europe turned briefly at the commotion. _

"_Put it to a vote," he said offhandedly and then shot Norway the most passionate, fervent gaze he'd seen in eons. "You know," he pulled a rose from somewhere and gripped it between his teeth, "I've made every country in Europe climax with my eyes expect you. Now, look at me, you stud!" _

_Norway heard King Europe purr ever so slightly and then he darted from the room. He never did learn the results of the vote and since then has sworn to never, ever to look King Europe in the eye. Ever._

He shuddered. "He wasn't so bad. Denmark was the least of my worries that time."

"What? Back at the restaurant? Norway, he almost got us killed… again." His voice softened as he switched tactics. "Look, Denmark's one of my best friends… usually…. sometimes."

"Yeah," Norway smiled fondly. "I don't think I'll ever get bored of him." The surf washed over his lap.

"Hypothetically though," Sweden paced as he spoke, "what if there was a way to have Denmark be Denmark without all of his exasperating faults?"

"What," Norway was vaguely disgusted, "you wanna slip him anti-psychotics or something?"

"Well," Sweden seemed to consider the sarcastic proposal, "it's not a bad idea. However, I was thinking we'd hold off on telling him he's fine so we can go camping for two days or so." Norway raised a dubious eyebrow until Sweden got the message. The other country rolled his eyes emphatically. "Fine. Have it your way, we'll go save Denmark from himself."

Meanwhile, Denmark had done something really dangerous. It's risky business for anyone to embark on this endeavor, but the troubles multiplied tenfold when Denmark tried it. He thought. Beyond that, he followed his train of thinking to its rational conclusion. Having accomplished that, he curled in on a pillow. Thankfully, he'd managed to remove Greenland and the Faroes from harm's way by defenestrating them from the second floor. Now though, he had to help himself. He'd confided his final wishes succinctly into a note left on the kitchen table just in case the plan didn't work.

He had dredged up everything he knew about Ebola. Unfortunately for him, most of the data came solely from an American movie called 'Outbreak' (based on a true story!). Given his source material, what he did next was only the logical course of action. He simply had no choice but to follow through. The details were fuzzy at best and fabricated at worst but according to the film, America had not only dealt with, but successfully _cured_ Ebola contrary to what the Democratic Republic of the Congo suggested.

To skew luck just so he might upgrade his chances of survival, America took unremitting delight in providing foreign aid. Denmark unrolled and dialed America's number.

"Hey, America?" He asked weakly. "Are you free for a minute?"

"F-free?" America sputtered. "I am _free?_ Of course of I'm free! I'm America dammit!"

When they arrived, Norway wanted to knock. With every shred of his being he wanted to knock, but that proved physically impossible. He pondered over how Denmark managed it, this thing that he did. This thing that happened so quick.

"Maybe he called disease control and ordered himself to be thrown into quarantine." Sweden deliberated. The abode he shared with Greenland and the Faroes sat solid, in all its Danish kingdom glory, encased in cellophane wrap. Greenland and the Faroes played in the sand nearby, completely unperturbed, building a castle with neon beach toys.

"Won't he suffocate in there?" Norway asked the other two.

"I don't know," Greenland upended a pink bucket, leaving a perfectly shaped tower in its wake, "maybe. How long will this take to clear up, do you think? It's almost dinnertime and I still need to thaw out a baby harp seal."

"Aren't those the cute, fluffy ones you always see in environmental commercials?" the Faroes asked offhandedly. "I bet it goes well with pilot whale. Pass me some seaweed, will you?"

Norway pulled out his keys and sawed at the taunt plastic sheet surrounding the doorbell, anxious to get his friend some fresh air before he damaged the parts of his brain that remained unscathed from heavy drinking. Norway attempted to self-soothe. He told himself he did everything he could, but the calm didn't take, not even after he ripped the plastic and mashed the bell.

"Denmark!" Sweden called, "There's no possible way you have Ebola unless you and Netherlands were drinking imported monkey blood!"

They waited and waited and waited and waited and Greenland finally piped up. "He actually may not be in there. A helicopter came by but I didn't really pay attention."

Norway tore at the barrier and twisted the door handle to open on an eerie scene. The furniture remained tooneatly in place for Denmark. Through the sterile air Sweden spotted a note conspicuously on the kitchen counter while Norway wandered about to locate his friend. With an emotion that landed somewhere between trepidation and sheer, morbid curiosity, Sweden strode to it and read:

"To my dear bestest friends Norway and Sweden:

"As you know, I might die and…"It was a solid four pages front and back. Handwritten too. Sweden skimmed. Most of it was Denmark waxing philosophical about the afterlife and some really depressing things about death in general. It's actually better Sweden skipped to the important parts. It was a sad note; so sad in fact, that even he'd cry from reading it in full, probably for a solid week straight.

"So…" Sweden summarized best he could. It's not as though Denmark had legible writing. Nor did he adhere to the universally accepted rules of English grammar and spelling. "To Sweden, I leave half of my beer and the Faroes too if you can catch him. and To Norway I leave the other, half my beer and my beech for fishing. You can also have Copenhagen to if you'd like I know you always said a few of the statues are neat I'll miss you the most, especially that thing. Youknow which thing I'm talking about. That we always do when Sweden's not - God he's such a crappy writer!" Sweden lamented, flipping the page and scanning some more. Then, his eyes froze on one almost complete sentence. "Ohhh shit! Norway! Down here! NOW!"

"What? I found one Denmark's porn stashes behind the toilet!" He called.

"Quit goofing off! Denmark asked America if he could come and get a magic Ebola serum that he invented like in the movies!" That got Norway's attention and he darted into the kitchen. His resulting curses must've echoed over the continent, but neither bothered to check.

"Hold on. We don't need to panic. Not yet. Maybe we can reason with America and get Denmark back here. That'll only take 16 hours or so. Then things will be fine." Sweden let loose an exasperated sigh and while Norway pulled out his phone. After three agonizing rings, America answered. "America!" Norway babbled. "This is important. Denmark's on his way to see you and thinks he has Ebola."

"Yes." America said blandly.

"It's all a misunderstanding. We were out to dinner and he insulted…" Norway stalled. They never did discover the Democratic Republic of the Congo's identity. "Someone from Africa, calling him a black Rambo. Sweden got mad and convinced him he had Ebola, but he's fine. Can you pack him on a plane and send him back?" Sometimes, things get lost in translation even when both parties are speaking English. The second half of Norway's statement floated off into the ether where it would hang over Køge Bay Beach for at least 10 years.

"Whhhhaaaaaaaaat! He can't judge Africa like that!" America squalled. "What a lot of Westerners fail to realize is that Africa is a beautiful country with lots of cultural and political diversity. I've read great literature from Africa. And," he lowered his voice to a smug whisper, "have you ever seen The Lion King?"

Overhearing, Sweden considered asking if America preferred reading 'Things Fall Apart' or 'Cry, the Beloved Country' more, but assumed his idea of African literature tilted closer to 'How the Zebra got his Stripes'. "Don't worry about this! Ebola or not, I'll teach him something about respect! Just leave it aaaaahhhhhllllll to me." Then he hung up.

Had Denmark been aware of this exchange, he may have second-guessed that impulse that forced him to summon that helicopter and journey across the Atlantic. Instead, he just saw a dire situation with no way out. He peered out the window as he glided over the British Isles. Scotland and England engaged each other in a game of croquet and waved up at him. Ireland raised a pint of Guinness and mouthed, "May the strength of three be in your journey."

Norway and Sweden sat dumbfounded in Denmark's house while Greenland and the Faroes continued to piddle outside.

"What's the worst that can happen to him?" Sweden mused. "America's okay."

"Right." Norway agreed. "He'll come back and probably tell us it was a great vacation. Maybe I should use all the spare I'm going to have to check in on Iceland."


	3. This Time for Africa

"Your move." Åland said.

Sweden agonized over the board. He played mostly the please Åland. However, that said precious little about his chess skills. "So do you think Denmark will have more fun than Iceland is on his Magical Mystery Tour?" It should be noted that Sweden, for a drastic change, wasn't being sarcastic.

South Africa visited them all numerous times during football season and during those stints, he and Iceland really hit it off. Without much convincing, Iceland agreed to go back with him after this last season. Iceland prattled excitedly about the vacation for weeks on end- that South Africa said they could ride ostriches in his national parks, that South Africa had places to raft and surf. Finally, that South Africa said if skydiving over mountains was fun, that Iceland absolutely had to give it a go over Cape Town. After all, one can only jump out of the same plane over the same mountains so many times before it got dull. So Iceland had a hankering for a new way to cheat death. Shock.

Less surprising was that he expected them to follow his adventures in a pretentious blog entitled 'Iceland's Magical Mystery Tour', describing it as all the fun and adventure of a bona fide African safari but with none of the malaria. Perhaps most predictable of all, Iceland deemed it prudent to mingle with all the cool dudes South Africa knew rather than simply fly back home, relying only his sharp wits and the charity of his brothers of the southern hemisphere until he either:

1. Went missing in action for forever and day

2. Miraculously reached Reykjavik.

Seeing as he went away three months ago and #2 hadn't happened yet, Finland developed a sophisticated betting pool on how Iceland arrived at #1. Upon checking Iceland's last blog entry, they developed their own working hypotheses and Finland kept track of the most plausible suggestions as to how, if ever, he'd make it back. Therefore, they all read religiously, despite Iceland writing as if following a carbon copy of an article titled 'How to not to Write a Travel Story.' It was an interesting study in solipsism:

**_Ticket to Ride_**

_April 23 10:11 2011_

_I discovered that Johannesburg is definitely the next Rome and Gabrone is the next Johannesburg. While I'm thinking about it, Harare is the next Gabrone! South Africa's been introducing me around. Just the other night, he threw a party and invited everyone in the area (except Lesotho)- Botswana, Zimbabwe, Madagascar… even Tanzania's making the trip down to meet me! Really, can you blame him? The only things that glow in the dark down here are me and the scorpions. They all think I'm the coolest thing since snow!_

_Fantastic party! One of the best I attended. We had a race. Each one of us rode a different animal! They give me the hippo. She was slow and cloppy, but damn did she have a temper! South Africa picked his zebra. He said there's something about the equal amount of black and white mingled together that he really likes. Though I was more interested in meeting Zimbabwe._

_He was a huge help to me in 2008. Remember that? My economy fell into a black hole and you all watched as my krona burned and held a toga party around the bonfire? When I hid under my covers for days and gleaned advice from Turkmenistan and Zimbabwe on how they handled inflation and still none of you helped? Don't worry. I'm not mad, just disappointed._

_Zimbabwe helped me out then. He and I get along great, too. We've been chatting and he's pretty excited to show off Victoria Falls. I hope my bungee chord hasn't been damaged too much by the climate differentiation chewed by the crazy nastyass honey badger._

_Hippo riding, tarantulas the size of my face, craggy beaches… guys, I couldn't feel more badass if I was loitering under a 'no loitering' sign._

_-Iceland_

Sweden tallied the votes and growing pile of cash each time he visited. So far, the top three runners on Iceland's fate were that he would: start a new life in the forest with lemurs replacing the demons as his minions (2:1), become Nigeria's partner-in-crime to scam the West (154:1), or get attacked by a kudu (500:1). None of them knew what one of those was, but even Norway agreed it sounded dangerous.

"Quit stalling and take your turn." Åland smiled sweetly. "You've got a great opening… if you can find it."

"Right. I see it." Sweden lied and hastily moved his knight, one of his last four playable pieces, to capture a pawn. Åland pulled a face that could almost be construed as pity had it come from anyone but a member of the Finnish family.

"Wanna take that back and try again? I can checkmate you now." Åland said.

"Wait! I think I see it this time!" Sweden replaced the knight, feeling that epiphany that he could finally beat his boyfriend in a game that didn't occur in the bedroom. He performed an about face and picked up his bishop instead and then something flashed in Åland's eyes and then… Finland crashed a steel bucket of fish heads on the chessboard, sending Sweden's Next Big Move sailing to the carpet.

"Hey!" Åland hissed. "Can't this wait?"

Finland stared.

"You act like you'll carve me like a holiday bird, but you don't want to lose my half of the rent."

Finland stared.

"I was about to win."

Finland sneered and gesticulated to the back door.

Åland snatched the bucket. "Fine! Don't think I won't remember this." Concurrently, Sweden raised a silent thank you to the heavens that he'd been saved from a humiliating defeat.

Finland stared for a few extra seconds, then stomped to his bedroom.

"He's right. It's getting late anyways. We can play again tomorrow, if you'd like." Sweden tried to stretch out some of his fatigue to no avail.

"Go to bed, I'll be up soon." Aland said. "But first, I'm going to take care of this," he gestured to the bucket, "and dust the reindeer's noses with red glitter. Do you want to help? It's really fun. It drives him insane."

"No thanks. Hurry though. Before we sleep," Sweden donned a wry smile, "I plan to pound you into the headboard so hard that you see God."

Afterwards, Sweden trudged upstairs to settle down in his boyfriend's bed and noticed Finland in the bathroom, picking his teeth with a kitchen knife. "You know," he said, "there is floss in the medicine cabinet."

The other country snapped around so fast that a hat tassel brushed against his nose and thrust the knife into the wood with such a force that it cracked. Sweden jumped back as Finland nodded his thanks, leaving the weapon quivering perpendicular to the door, and retrieved the dental floss.

Just as the Finnish family settled down to bed and activities related therein, Denmark enjoyed the privilege of waking up to a purple hued sunrise over beautiful spacious skies and amber waves of grain. 'Waking up', of course, being a very generalized term. He didn't do much sleeping on the ride over. He didn't watch the in-flight movie either (and it had precious little to do with the fact it was 'Twilight'). Nor did he eat. He spent the majority of the journey over crying in a ball. To sum, he was in bad form. Meanwhile, America stood proud at the airbase perched in the suburbs of his capital, elated to receive his guest. More so, it would be him who had the honor of telling Denmark that he was about to embark on a tour of the greatest strongest place in the world… whether he liked it or not.

He waved the helicopter down insistently. It was a very lucky thing on both their behalves there were was no literal fire around, as the resulting gusts from the rotary blades would've kicked up an inferno. There were just the flames of freedom burning bright and Denmark was about to step into hell.

"Hey Viking dude!" America greeted his dignitary with open arms, "Did you have a comfortable flight?"

"Not really." Denmark staggered a bit; his legs had fallen asleep even though he hadn't. "I'm as tired as a cucumber in a nunnery. Let's just get this over with."

Denmark and America faced off, which wasn't exciting in the least, not compared to the wars of old. They spent an unwarranted amount of time blinking and staring at the other. Perhaps it was jetlag on Denmark's part or perhaps America had a difficult time sifting through his Danish accent. Regardless of the cause, the net result was a dull scene. It went on for a while, nearly a half-hour.

"W-what? I don't get it." America finally ventured, "A cucumb- Oh Jesus! Ewewewewewewewew!" Then time charged forward. America grew somber and strode close to Denmark. Close enough he bent down over his head, casting an ominous shadow over the other country like a solar eclipse. "This is worse than what I originally thought. Come on, you've got a lot to learn!" He firmly grabbed Denmark's forearm and dragged him forward. Denmark made a good faith effort to steel himself against the momentum, but with nothing to brace himself against beyond the expanse of concrete composing the runway, the situation from his perspective looked increasingly bleak.

The last time Denmark heard America say that, it was to Iraq and, years later, he was still an active and adamant member the Helped by America Support Group. He and Afghanistan formed it soon after their reeducation began. It was an instant hit with a lot of countries. Palestine offered to host on a regular basis and even Japan and dear old England showed up to a session or six. America didn't care. He relished the attention. It followed the same sentiment as folks who stand in front of runners in a gym while eating a pint of Ben n' Jerry's.

"Wait wait! I'm a sovereign democracy, just like you." Denmark unsuccessfully tried to reclaim his arm and reason with America.

Now step back a moment to absorb the irony inherent in this situation. Look at it one part at a time.

Denmark tried to _reason_. That alone was just cause for concern. This was a country who wore clothes only because his friends yelled if he didn't. A country who declared it a capital offense to eat raw bacon under a full moon.

Denmark tried to reason _with_ _America_- the country that turned the Macarena into a dance craze. That voted two George Bush into office twice.

Time to move forward.

"No you're not. I'm much more culturally tolerant. Your buddies told me what you said to Africa. You called him _black_." America walked Denmark forward. Like most other countries facing America's wrath, he surrendered so fast you'd mistake him for France. America paid him no further heed beyond a continued lecture. "What I want you to understand is that he was African-American, not black…"

"Now hold on just one damn second!" Denmark jerked backwards so hard that America finally released him. He surprised even himself by being so forceful. "I have Ebola, dragging me around will kill us both." Then and only then did America stop and listen.

"Right." He said definitively. "I'll have to get you to the Reston Ebola House right away! It's about two miles west of here."

"What the hell's a mile?" Denmark asked.

"Oh, about 5,000 feet give or take." America said, throwing Denmark over his shoulder and marching like a jovial soldier. Seeing no other option for the time being, Denmark planted his palms on America's back to remain mostly horizontal, save for a few uncomfortable and awkward bounces. He watched as the capitol landscape retreated before his eyes, a giant white obelisk looming in the distance like a bad omen then turned his attention to his host's feet and got counting.

"4,999… 4,998… 4,997…" It was going to be a very long trip.


	4. The Reston House

**_Drive my Car_**

_April 30 12:12 2011_

_Sorry I've been out of the loop so long. The bungee chord snapped and I broke a few ribs **and** suffered a concussion **and** nearly drowned at the base of the waterfall **and** ran into a crocodile. I didn't see him try to eat the sun, but it made a good faith effort to eat my head. Don't let that deter you from cliff diving, though. It's perfectly safe. And in the long run, what're a few bones? It's not like they hold me together or anything and I can live with a few less. They crack too easily._

_Zimbabwe jumped in after me, and then rushed me to his medical center in a van named 'Street Fighter'. What you guys really need to understand about Zimbabwe is that his road rage is almost as bad as mine. He bounced that car over termite mounds, around a territorial rhino, and revved out of giant potholes I told him could easily be filled with lava. I was in a daze when I made that comment, but overall I'd say he's being a really good sport about it all. He helped set my bones, gave me a bed without complaint, and killed any mosquitoes that found their way inside. _

_In other news, I also found a new pet! Rather, he found me when I swallowed some water from the river. Holar, Selfoss, and the other demons will be so jealous because this little guy is quick becoming my favorite. I'm not entirely sure what he is. All I know is he sits right near my appendix (I'll take a picture of the lump under my skin and post it later) and he wiggles if I eat too much sugar. Taking suggestions for names starting… now! Zimbabwe told me to get rid of it, but I'm strangely okay with him living there because it kinda tickles. If he becomes too much trouble, I suppose I can always dig him out with a spoon. _

_Zimbabwe says I'm very lucky. I agree in part. Stop and think with me for a second- Imagine what would happen to me if I asked for medical help like this from say… America. Would I be treated so well?_

_-Iceland_

America? The one who kindly offered to help Denmark solve all his horrible ills? Right. That guy.

The short answer to Iceland's question posed to the ether was: probably not. Denmark could provide a more lengthy response.

Poised just outside Washington, D.C was a ramshackle affair of a treatment center. Taken as a standalone entity, there was nothing extraordinary about the place. However, if walls could talk, these might scream. Denmark agreed with the sentiment 100% and then some. He positively _shrank_ as America poked him forward over the tattered and loose tiles that composed the floor.

"This is where I studied Ebola. Sorry about the state of the place, I'm getting ready to tear it down." America said, pushing Denmark into the exam room. "I don't have the monkeys anymore tough. We tried the cure on them and sent them back to the Congo. We should know how it went in a few years."

The exam room could best be described genteelly as rustic, cozy, and antique. A real estate magazine would note its cinder block walls that sported coats of Insane Asylum white painted to expertly hide the old blood spatters that ran up to the ceiling, in some cases. It would draw special attention to the elegant bed tucked in the corner that hadn't needed a wipe down with bleach in decades because ample use of formaldehyde already killed off any infectious spores floating in the space. Patrons would be urged to note the array of decorative and functional medical equipment that included a cauterizing iron, bone saw, amputation knife, tourniquet, and retractor. Denmark however, had a _slightly _dichotomous opinion. "This is a torture chamber."

"Oh calm down." America scooped him up and plopped him on the exam table in one swift movement. "Don't be so dramatic. I'm only going to use about four of the sharp things. We'll be done in a few hours. Now try not to squirm too much."

Denmark burrowed his way into the corner and held still against concrete walls that were cold and unyielding. What alternative existed? The options in front of him were: deal, which was unideal to be sure or end up like poor Yugoslavia in a mausoleum and spoken of only in history textbooks. He grasped at the tenuous hold on his calm. "What are you going to do? Is it going to hurt?"

"Of course it'll hurt." America scrubbed at his chin and then rummaged around in a rusted iron drawer. "Italy and I whipped up this thing that attacks your RNA or something. I'm not 100% on the details. We may have to remove a kidney, but I'll let you know if it comes to that."

Denmark whimpered loudly, so America attempted a softer approach. "Don't stress too much Viking Dude, there's a reason God gave you two of them. If I have to go in there and pull one out, you'll still live." Then a pause. "I found it! Here we go!"

He performed an about face, brandishing a long and vicious needle full of an orange colored syrup. "Okay, I'm gonna dig this in a few inches. If you're good at the end, I'll give you a smiley sticker and a lollipop. Try to hold still. This may hurt a lot."

Denmark didn't know how much an inch was. He didn't particularly think a lollipop counted as a suitable reward for this whole ordeal, either. In all actuality, he'd full on abandoned clear thinking as America closed in. The needlepoint caught the sun, forming a six-point star at its tip. The only detail missing was an audible 'ding' that would emphasize its sharpness. Denmark kept his eyes trailed on it as it came closer… and closer… and closer… and then…

Once! Twice! Thrice! Frice! Well, maybe just thrice because frice isn't actually a number. Thrice, Denmark rolled to the floor and away from America and thrice he was summarily dragged back to the examination table until he was reduced to a quivering, cooperating mess.

America tried his hand at tough love. "Sit up straight, soldier!" He snapped, noting that Denmark jumped. "You asked me for help and you'll be damn grateful for the opportunity to receive it! I wouldn't do this sort of favor for North Korea now hold still and-" America stopped and gasped. The needle fell to the ground with a piercing shatter and he pointed a trembling index finger at Denmark's arm. "You cut your arm!"

"So what?" Denmark asked weakly. "It's barely even bleeding."

"Exactly! Don't you get it?" He pulled the other country into a crushing embrace. "You don't have Ebola, now we can start on Phase 2!"

"W-wait!" Denmark stuttered. "I came all this way… and I'm fine?"

"Not in the head." America pointedly tapped his temple. "Don't worry though. That's what _I'm_ here to fix." He gave Denmark a companionable clap on the back. "This is going be so fun." America wrung his hands together and hunched over, giving an evil cackle. "I'll teach you things like tolerance… and leadership! All from wonderful _me_." He inhaled deeply, radiating satisfaction. "Me." Right. An ego to match the territory in size.

"You're still on that?" Denmark sat, positively stunned.

"Still on you offending poor, backwards Africa? I never forgot it." America squawked as he grabbed Denmark's hand and led him outside. "I'm gonna learn you how to be a better country from wonderful me! Now let's get you a hotel. Tomorrow, the _real_ fun begins and I'll show you a great northeastern city! Really historic place." America held Denmark in a gentle headlock and dramatically wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. "Sweet land of liberty… when I look over my proud cities, my golden fields and important mountains, I could just _cry_." Not literally though. Crying wasn't for real men.

"Interesting," Denmark sniffled. "I could too." Very literally. Crying was a knee-jerk and very reasonable reaction.

* * *

><p><em>Later that same, stressful night... <em>

Denmark gesticulated glumly in front of the window and blinked rapidly, head buried wearily into his arms as the artificially frosty air tousled his hair. High above the avenues and alleyways, he sat abandoned and anxious in a city with a population that rivaled that of his entire homeland. The buildings shimmering beyond the window stretched like mountains in a concrete jungle. The buildings everyone but him called home. It was the type of scenery people came to America to see and enjoy, but not Denmark.

He made a point to lock the door, so America couldn't catch him in the middle of the night and drag him back to that horrendous monkey house. Denmark suppressed a sudden shudder that assailed him from either stress, cold, or abject loneliness, snapped the curtains shut, and propped a pillow against the headboard of the bed- a bed far bigger than anything he was used to having to himself. Just like any other time he wanted company, he pulled out his phone and dialed Norway's number while gripping the pillow that made a lackluster substitute for his friend. He knew with the time difference, he and Sweden were likely on a hike that he perpetually refused to join. The phone rang six times; he counted, before forwarding him to voicemail.

Demark didn't bother leaving a message, but didn't hang up either. All the fight drained from him, Denmark let a few tears trickle down his cheek, knowing that if Norway were with him, his friend would gladly hold him, peppering in as many reassuring squeezes as necessary until all the negativity worked itself out of his system. The regret of his own impulsivity trailed him like a jet stream. With a sniffle, he burrowed his face into the pillow and wondered if later, the same scene would play out on the other side of the Atlantic.

* * *

><p><em>AN: The Reston Ebola house has been torn down (imagine my jealousy when I heard people would explore it) as of October 2011. They are developing a cure, but not willing to infect people with Ebola just to test it out. Go figure. Overall though, I'm talking out of my ass as to how it's treated. Medicine isn't my thing; so don't use this chapter as a basis for your science project._

_The world tour continues next time._


	5. Rockefeller Skanks

Four days passed since Norway reported a series of alarming calls from Denmark detailing the agonies he endured. They included being served non-alcoholic beer (thanks to these atrocious things America described as 'blue laws'). That America charged him $3 million for the Ebola treatment on account of him declaring no viable health insurance up front. Finally, he complained that having an uninterrupted wank around America proved more difficult than executing a top-secret covert operation a la Metal Gear Solid.

Sweden felt at least nominally responsible. Perhaps worse, he had to apologize. He, Sweden, owed an apology to Denmark. A cosmic hiccup if one ever existed. Sweden gave the side of his head a light smack. A painful sting had been gnawing at him for the better part of a week and he narrowed the root cause down to a poisonous insect set on eating him alive or guilt. To eliminate the latter, he arranged for a video chat with America set to begin at 8:15 exactly.

It was 8:11. Sweden sat waiting since 7:45 with the webcam open, plugging idly at his laptop. Somewhere in the course of history, he decided the concept of 'on time' translated to '30 minutes early' either ignoring or forgetting that America defined 'on time' as 'whenever I damn well feel like showing up because I can pull that sort of thing'.

Once more, Sweden read his treaty draft (developed just in case) and some carefully outlined negotiation strategies. The only thing he didn't have on hand was a ransom payoff.

Sweden didn't have any money. Between Finland's betting pool and Greece's financial stupidity, the whole continent was broke. Though Sweden loathed admitting it, he himself lost a few thousand Euros. Peer pressure led him to join in. That didn't stop him from using Iceland as a convenient time killer when, at 8:33, America had yet to show.

**_Helter Skelter_**

_May 10 17:08 2011_

_Remember when I was still a young rebel Viking and got tired of living with Norway so I built a wooden ship (which was super-hardcore) and then I sailed and sailed and sailed until I hit an island made of glaciers and was all 'Yeeeeeeaaaaah'? You all remember that? I do. I've always loved having that sense of adventure, which is what led me on the Magical Mystery Tour. It also pressed me north to meet Zambia. _

_We didn't quite connect, Zambia and I. He never made it down to my party and when we met up, he promptly declared me a ghost, dropped to his knees, and asked what he did that was worthy of a malevolent spirit coming to steal his soul. I tried my best to explain that I was plenty alive (unless something drastic changed that I didn't know about). Zambia wasn't having it though; he was too busy mumbling quietly to himself, molding crosses out of copper wire, and dousing me with holy water all the while insisting live people could never be as pale as me. After a week or so of that, and living off not-sure-what-it-is type insects and plants, I gave up. Just in time too. The whole 'camping alone on the savanna' must've gotten to me because a **giant pink elephant** strode my way. I shit you not. A giant pink elephant. So I told Zambia I would just go be beautiful somewhere else and followed it. _

_It plodded north for a few hours until Tanzania spotted us and dragged us to his place with a cry of "Not you again!" I have no idea if that was for the elephant or me. Hanging at Tanzania's house is kind of like stepping into an issue of National Geographic (Norway, you're free to get jealous any time now). He says I'm allowed to go anywhere the light touches, but to keep out of the shadowy jungle off to the west. Funny thing is, I keep hearing a voice from there saying things like "Roses are red, violence is too. Look out glitterman, I'm coming for you!" _

_Tanzania told me that he's the Democratic Republic of the Congo. That I'm a suicidal fool for thinking to visit him, that this guy will flog me with hippo hide for looking at him funny; that he visited Europe just to shoot Belgium; that he broke Rwanda's leg for fun the other day. He thinks I'd best stay put and enjoy the animals, but I'm too curious to let it alone. Standing among the hills, the whole of that jungle shines like an Emerald in the sun. That alone will make Ireland green with envy! If you want to stroll through unguided and expect to emerge alive, I believe the technical term for what you are is SoL._

_Telling me not to go somewhere that dangerous is like putting a sign that reads 'Warning: delicious food. Do not eat' on top of a boiled sheep head._

_What do you all think? There's no point in forgoing any opportunity. Who knows when they'll pass our way again._

_-Iceland_

At 8:40, Norway walked in. He contributed a duffle bag full of herring and moral support to the cause. Sweden shared Iceland's story and the guilt between our heroes multiplied tenfold. Norway said talking him out of a jungle hike was useless, that a warning would only aggregate the thrill factors and that maybe an apology bouquet to Belgium wouldn't be amiss.

At 8:43, the webcam flashed on America, who had arrived fashionably late- or right on time according to him. As the connection solidified, America sat strong and stolid in an overstuffed chair with Denmark standing behind him unenthused, dangling the Great Seal of the United States from a fishing pole. It could've been worse. At the very least, Denmark was well fed, wasn't chained anywhere, and the broadcast didn't appear to be from Guantanamo Bay. It was all about the little victories.

Denmark snapped to attention at the sight of his friends and monopolized the screen. "Norway! It's been _four whole days_! ImissyouImissyouImissyou!" Denmark's mood hit the edge of its plateau as he shot Sweden a frosty glare. "Oh. _He's _here too."

"Hi Denmark." Sweden said authoritatively. That niggling stinging sensation waxed intense. "So…" He rummaged for the proper words and strove to overcome his own learning wall. "You don't have Ebola."

"No shit." Denmark shot back, his voice dripping venom. Sweden sat unresponsive with his eyebrows stitched together and eyes shut tightly. Strike one. For a complete role reversal, he prepared to take whatever Denmark dished out with every sliver of dignity he could muster.

"How's it going so far?" Norway piped in.

Denmark insinuated to answer until America clapped a hand over his mouth. So much for free speech." Great." America said. "I'm having fun anyways. I'm so glad this guy's here and gets to hang out, but it's a bitch convincing him to like you. I've tried beer and a tour of one of my favorite citi- ow! He bit me!"

Denmark acted fast, before America could silence him again. "It's terrible! This place he insisted on showing me… Filthadelphia."

"You can just call it Philly." America said, hurt.

"Whatever. He changed the name of the Liberty Bell to the Security Bell. There are nearby towns called 'Intercourse' and 'Climax' I wasn't allowed to see. Brewerytown is good only if you want to learn how to sleep through gunshots, and Pothouse Road - equally misleading." Denmark twitched.

"Listen," Sweden started again. He appealed to Norway, who sat patiently, more curious than supportive. "Denmark," he fidgeted. "I guess what I'm trying to say is…" then inconveniently the words just stopped coming. It was as if someone clamped a vice around his neck and squeezed. The effect was almost painful. In spite of it all, his own stubbornness propelled him onward. "J-Jag är ledsen." He finally choked out.

"What was that?" Denmark rolled up a piece of paper and held the cone to his ear. "I didn't catch that."

"I said I'm sorry!" Sweden blurted. "Now can we kindly move on? I guess… America, what do I need to do to get Denmark back here?"

America gave his cheek a thoughtful scratch and Sweden perceived the distinctive 'tap tap tap' of a text message in composition. Not a split second after Norway sent it, he noted a positively impish grin creep across Denmark's face.

"You wait!" He jabbed a finger in Sweden's general direction through the screen. "We stay the course until he's better educated."

Sweden let his exasperation shine forth. "America, just once, just _one time_ be reasonable! That's all I ask. Don't make me call King Europe."

"Actually," Denmark said coolly. "He's right. There's one place here I bet I can learn a lot. America, what's that one city you have? The one that has the state named after it?"

"New York City? Actually, you have it backwards. I established the state first. I guess if you'd really like I can take you to a Broadway play or something. Lemme grab Canada and we can go there."

"That's the place, but forget the play. Just… let my conscious be our guide."

Sweden never got the chance to use any of his nifty documents, or even offer America any sort of trade. Just as abrupt as Denmark's mood swing, he pushed America off camera and gave his buddies a conspicuous wink. Then they were gone.

"Okay Norway, what did you tell him?" Sweden asked, blinking from the abruptness of it all.

"That he should try to get deported." Norway said.

It's worth nothing there are two really good ways to get deported from America- either commit an act he ruled obscene in his courts, which would annoy him enough to get rid of the perpetrator or convince him to commit an act of moral turpitude himself. Rather than sully his own name, he'd accuse the deportee for the wrongdoing. Alternately, there's waging a threat against America's ideals or citizens. Easy enough, right?

* * *

><p><em>The morning after Denmark's latest enterprise…<em>

Among them, the Nordics had identified 34 types of hangovers. When consulting Ireland and Germany, they found 8 more existed. Add Russia's discoveries and the grand total soared to 50. Denmark took an educated guess that he experienced #21- casually referred to as 'Toxic Wasted' and brought on by copious amounts of beer, some sort of green cocktail, and a splash of toilet water. It was definitely not his usual modus operandi, but occurred often enough to receive a name. From his distinct lack of company, Denmark guessed as though things went exactly as planned.

Morning found Denmark splayed across a few low-lying branches steps from 5th Avenue.

He and America did agree on something- nature sucked and was more tolerable when paved over. After all, one of the best ways to prevent forest fires was cutting down all the trees. He rolled over and landed softly into the meticulously tended sod. More out of habit than conscious action, Denmark checked his phone and found a text from Canada, politely requesting his attention at his earliest convenience. With his only other option being to sit under a tree all day, Denmark obliged and returned the call. "Hi, where are you? Starbucks, it's called?" Denmark turned his head and saw the sage mermaid sign not more than one block over. "Awesome! I'm right by Starbucks, I'll see you soon."

It took a lot of practice and a special kind of street savvy neither used, but gradually they figured it out. Picture this: two non-Americans playing tag in a 30-block area, each shouting on their phone intermittently "You said you're at Starbucks. I'm at Starbucks, where are you? How come I don't see you? Are you sitting down?" After so long, they located fifteen Starbucks in the vicinity and relied on street names and intersections thenceforward. Then, they linked up in a Starbucks of all places, the one located at 6th Avenue and 54th Street.

Canada saved a table while Denmark braved the line and attempted to order two coffees. Strong emphasis on attempted. After several minutes and a mite bit of shouting, he ended up with two drinks that may have been in a room with authentic espresso at one point in their infancy, but mutated into frozen beverages composed largely of ice and topped off with whipped cream just for added effect.

He set one in front of himself and passed the other to Canada who took one sip of his mochafrappawhatnot and cursed liberally. "Son of a motherless goat, Denmark! Do you have any idea what you've done?"

Denmark inhaled the sweetness of his own beverage. "Of course I do." He lied. "But do _you._ You were pretty drunk last night."

"I told you before that mom won't let me drink until I'm 400." Then he filled in the holes for Denmark…

_Across Manhattan, the lights dimmed down and out waltzed the creatures of the night. No, not the creepy crawlies that Iceland pampered, not Romania either. Instead a crowd that held a self-sustaining party solely for the celebration of the rear end. "This," Denmark motioned over Manhattan. "This is what you're all about, America! Those old statues and buildings you talk about, that's not **you**!" He gave his host a firm, open-palmed slap on the ass. "Now let's get drunk!"_

_And so it went. Canada chaperoned by default, but being assertive just wasn't him. America covertly explained that he did want Denmark to like him; so the proposed venture into big city nightlife was worth exploring on those grounds alone. Seeing no viable alternative, Canada steered his charges off the street corner into a club appropriately named 'Blackout' whereupon Denmark picked up a beer for himself, ice water for Canada, and for America…_

_"What did you say this was again?" America scrutinized the eerie green liquid recently set aflame._

_"Absinthe." Denmark shouted over the whomy dubstep beat pounding forth from the speakers suspended from the ceiling._

_"And you're positive I won't catch the gay if drink it? Canada, what do you think!"_

_"No," Canada shouted. "Getting hammered won't make you gay."_

_"Do Eye-ran and Eye-rak like it?"_

_"Iran and Iraq? No, they don't drink."_

_"Then that's all I needed to hear." America nodded approvingly and tossed back the green stuff without ceremony. He felt nothing and felt nothing and felt nothing so he drank and drank and drank._

_Two hours and twelve beers and some absinthe between them, America's state of sobriety waned from drunk to entirely shitfaced. "And in 1959, I wahs like fuuuuuuck. There were only 49 states! What the hell kind of awkward number is 49?" America slurred. "I honest to God didn't know what else to do, so I just made up North Dakota and no one noticed."_

_"Guys," Canada interrupted, swallowing some ice water. "We really, really need to go. Mom's with Sister Japan a few tables over. We don't want to be seen here."_

_Every country in the world practiced selective deafness at one point or another and now it was Denmark's turn. Where Canada saw only potential for embarrassment, he saw two beautiful ladies in a seedy New York club. It should be no surprise that he acted on impulse alone and dragged America over to them. When opportunity knocks…_

"_Hey France. Let's say you and I have a quickie in an abandoned subway tunnel? If that's not your thing, there's the Museum of Sex on 27th and 5th. Maybe you and I could be an exhibit." Denmark made a half-assed attempt to ease an arm around her. Copious amount of alcohol did negatively affect his womanizing and thanks to his efforts to keep pace with America, it was a small wonder he managed to remain coherent. _

"_What did you say, you little twonk?" France snarled, batting away the offending appendage._

"_Uh…"_

"_That's what I thought. One more remark like that and I will positively screw you."_

"_Really?" Denmark said hopefully._

"_And not in the fun, slightly stick way."_

"_Oh. So… ask again in six shots is what you're saying?"_

_Men should, by all logic, be at their wittiest when conversing with the opposite sex. As a general rule, though, this is not the case. Perhaps the natural awkwardness inherent in this relatively common scene was the gene pool's way of appointing a lifeguard that hindered certified idiots from reproducing. France generally was a prickly woman and didn't take kindly to such ridiculousness invading her night out. To bring the conversation to its appropriate conclusion, France looked at her watered down drink then again at Denmark's __lascivious grin and promptly tossed the contents in his face before pertly trotting off. _

_Denmark threw his wet hair from his eyes and slicked the unruly mess back as best he could. The cold water mellowed him out and forced some sobriety back into him. He felt a small pang of jealousy to see that America had better luck with Sister Japan._

"_So you're a girl, huh? I bet that gets pretty interesting." Sister Japan daintily placed her hand against her cheek and giggled so America continued. "Do you wanna try some of my drink? It's delicious. I promise there's not a roofie in it or anything." _

_She giggled some more. "Oh, no thank you Mr. America. France and I are just having girl's night. If you'd like, give me your phone and I'll input my number so we can talk more later."_

_America zealously tossed over his phone and upon receiving it back, beamed at Denmark. "Did you hear that?" America cheered, brandishing his drink like an Olympic torch as they walked away. "I got a girl's number. How'd you do?"_

"_What is it, then?" Denmark asked._

"_Let's see…Japan…" America flipped open his contacts and scanned in the dim light. "Israel… Italy… Jamaica… Korea… I don't get it. I don't see her name. What happened?"_

"_You got burned, is what happened." Denmark snatched back the phone and found the answer after a few strategic finger pokes." She texted $500 to the Red Cross. It'll show up on your next bill."_

"After that, you guys were kinda deflated so I called a taxi to go back to the hotel. We got stuck in traffic and you dared America to run through Times Square in his star-spangled underwear. You got out to chase him and that was the last I saw of either of you."

"Think he's mad enough to deport me?" Denmark asked hopefully.

"Not sure, but we really ought to find him." Canada stood and motioned Denmark to the exit.

"Before we do, I need to ask you a favor." Canada held open the door and waited until they were out on the sidewalk, patiently waiting for Denmark to continue. "Do you think I could follow you home until I convince Greenland to let me go back to my own place? Seems quicker than seeing if the deportation trick worked."

"Are you sure Greenland would let you? He's been telling everyone that you left him your house after you died from Ebola."

"He will. Unless he wants me to tell Japan it's open season on his whales." Denmark said.

Canada twitched regretfully. "Sorry, Denmark. I really am. But really I like America. He's not so bad once you get to know him and he quits going 'Memememe, me me. Meme. Memememememe," He wasn't referencing the infamous memes made so blasphemously popular by fools romping around the Internet. He just upped the tempo of his speech to emphasize his point, "Me. And oh, by the way, me. For Christmas, I wanted to get him a plaster cast of his ego, but realized there wasn't enough plaster in the world to do it, eh. Spiriting you outta here would hurt his feelings something awful. And don't forget the weapons."

That was America all right, like every other world authority including North Korea- powerful but insecure, constantly in need of reassurance from those around him. If friends and warm fuzzies couldn't be procured the normal way, he'd resort to bombs.

"How do we find him, then?" Denmark asked. "New York is huge and he could be _anywhere_."

It just so happened that Lady Luck walked with them that day. No more than 10 blocks north, Canada zoned in on some heavy heaves wafting from a narrow alley, behind a dumpster, next to a puddle of general swill.

"Fuck the Democrats!" The voice bawled between heaves.

"That's how." Canada said dully.

"Oh, it's you guys, thank sweet baby Jesus and the orphans." America inched toward them on all fours, ignoring that he planted both knees in the unidentified liquid. "Denmark, I never should've brought you into this den of debauchery. New York is just where I dump everything I don't know what else to do with."

"No, no." Denmark placated. He and Canada steadied America as he regained footing and height. "This is all my fault. I got you drunk, lost, and possibly deflowered. It's a crime of moral turpitude that I deserve to be deported immediately for."

"No, no." America repeated, shuffling out of the alley with no small amount of assistance from his handlers. "That wouldn't be fair to you. You're a troubled country and only acting how you know. Screw this democracy crap, I'm making the executive decision to take you somewhere bigger than New York… more ethical too."

Denmark felt crippled by a flash of nausea that felt far more painful than anything hangover-induced. "Where do you… oh no. You can't…"

"But I can." America shook off the other two and stood tall, dredging the scraps of his dignity. "Canada, go home! I'll be needing a different hat where we're going. Come on, you pint-sized pioneer. We're gonna 'stirrup' your good values in Texas!"

"The cowboy treatment." Canada said knowingly. He reached around to wrap Denmark in a hug. "Good luck, buddy."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Wow, did Real Life slam me in a big way. Sorry to have kept you all waiting (hopefully, this makes up for it). Seems like I bounced back though. Feels good. I was a little hesitant to provide the world with yet another "Lost in New York" story, but I couldn't help myself. You already know this is going to get ugly. Stay tuned to see just how much._


	6. A Gun for Everyone!

Texas is a place saturated with contradictions. Consider its fierce independence toted in slogans such as 'Don't mess with Texas' compared to its booming tourist industry. Consider how it is one of the major embodiments of America's culture overseas, yet many traditions are borrowed from Mexico. Consider the modern and contemporary urban style spread out over a prairie full of livestock… or something profound like that. Details and theories were more Sweden's thing. Denmark preferred to remain in the moment.

And at that moment, he was very befuddled. "Can you explain this to me one more time because I don't think I understood the first three." Denmark asked with as much politeness and sincerity as he could muster. Given the circumstances, it was difficult. He held an enormous hat at his side. He didn't wear it. It was too big and barely fit. Neither did the tousled red and white vest that was at least two sizes too large, nor did the embroidered leather boots with the attached silver spurs.

That was only the start.

America donned a costume downright blinding. True to his Western heritage, he opted to elevate the image of rhinestone cowboy to a higher level. His shirt, a predictable red, white, and blue was lined in sequins. His boots were crafted from the finest endangered rattlesnake skin available and cured in children's tears. On top of his head, America donned a black hat with a sheriff star in the center, staring Denmark down like a third eye. To complete his ensemble, America carried a lasso on one hip, a gun hostler on the other, and sported a belt buckle with the subtle yet tasteful phrase 'Love Bronco'.

Before them stood two mounts saddled and ready to go- a palomino mare wearing a cowboy hat herself with mane done up neatly in a red bow and to allay any remaining doubt, three bright red apples graced her flank. Applejack- America's _favorite _girl. Then, there was a piebald cow. Not just any piebald cow, but a bona fide Grade A female longhorn that America expected Denmark to ride. And she was pregnant. Denmark asked if there perhaps had been some mistake. Maybe he should have a pink pony with pink curly mane, but America said no. A pink pony? Now that was just silly.

Denmark couldn't help but gawk his mount. And she looked back at him, thoughtfully chewing the bit in a way Denmark could only interpret as her saying 'Bring it, city slicker! The second you climb on my back, you're _mine_.'

"Stop staring at her. You'll make her feel self-conscious." America said stolidly. "Now one I'll say it one more time. We'll go for a ride while I give you a lesson on guns."

"God help me." Denmark said.

Then God did. Seemingly out of nowhere, some thunderclouds grumbled on the horizon, threatening to make it a terrible day to be outside. America wasn't about to take chances though. He sprinted forward, yanked the gun from its holster and with a cry of "Oh no you don't!" He opened fire on the clouds. So it went for the next five minutes. Eventually the sun shone its face again and America returned, smug. "See? You can control the weather _and_ maintain peace through superior firepower." America effortless mounted Applejack and looked expectantly at Denmark. "Now get on your cow."

"No." Denmark pouted childishly and gave America his favorite pathetic look- wide sparkling eyes, hunched shoulders, a few whimpers… the works. Overall, it would've been very effective on Norway, but America had none of it.

"Don't make me repeat myself."

"What are you going to do? Brand me with an iron that says USA?" Denmark snapped back, dropping the act.

"Shut up and mount the cow."

"I'd prefer New Zealand."

"A sheep's way too small to ride."

"Not what I meant."

"Up with you."

"No."

"I'm the one with the gun."

"You won't shoot me."

"Get on the cow."

And so on…

45 minutes later…

America bellowed and blustered and eventually won by giving Denmark the option of a pleasant ride through the oil fields or Bible study at a Texas-sized megachurch. He had been a huge fan of free choice since breaking from England, but it was all about making the right choice too. Denmark couldn't agree more.

In true cowboy fashion, the pair ambled off toward the horizon over the flat and featureless landscape broken up by periodic oilrigs. It wasn't nearly as harrowing as Denmark envisioned, based on the old western movies. India and his pals were nowhere to be seen and the pregnant cow wasn't built for speed and maneuverability. He even got the hang of riding- a nudge with the heels moved the animal forward and he steered with the reins. The hat kept the sun out of his eyes too. After America's gunfight with the clouds, he seemed perfectly content to lecture.

"Now," America began. "Let's go over some gun safety rules. With great power comes great responsibility and you have to understand this. Rule one: Before cocking your gun, it's polite to say 'pardon me while I whip it out'."

"Stop." Denmark said, vaguely surprised to see that America did. He wheeled Applejack around. "Why am I riding a cow and you get a horse again?"

"Duh." America laughed. "We're being _cow _boys. Did you think that I have cows just to be lawn ornaments? These animals work for their keep. Rule two: There are only four safe directions you can point a gun- at a Nazi, at a commie, at a hippie, and at a terrorist!"

"Cowboys, huh?" Denmark deliberately ignored America and cajoled the cow into moving at a quicker clip. "They're the men that go out to the middle of nowhere in pairs… alone for days… with no one but each other and their horses for company. Men that wear leather, carry ropes, and sing to each other."

"That's us!" America cheered.

"Doesn't that all sound just a little gay to you?" He smiled broadly. "I saw a movie like this… where two cowboys fall in love with each other and they kiss."

"Pffft! Cowboys wouldn't do _that_!" America held up a hand with quickness and narrowed his eyes at something in the distance. "Stop! There's Mexico again…in my yard without my permission!" He growled and pointed at a figure lazing a few meters yonder. Denmark pulled back on the reins until the cow quit came to a complete stop. "Rule three is don't ever, ever piss me off. Now pardon me while I whip it out." America yanked the gun from its holster galloped off into the sun.

Denmark was only glad to let him go. He wanted to catch up with back home anyways. So there he sat, in the middle of the prairie. Just him and a cow hanging out. She bent down to graze and seemed content to go nowhere fast, so Denmark felt comfortable enough to wrap the reins around the horn of the saddle and give Norway a call. This time though, the other country had the sense to answer.

"Hi Norway." Denmark said.

"Denmark! I'm so glad you called. Look, I know you're going through a lot right now but I really need to talk. I had a dream last night that gave me a really, really good idea. And you were in it." Norway said.

"Did I lay in bed and turn myself into a sundae for you? If so, I'm way ahead of you."

"Not quite." Norway said cautiously. "We discussed Uganda over and over. We discussed Uganda in Finland's sauna, at night on the beach… we even discussed Uganda in my forest and you didn't mind because I was behind you the entire time."

"I'd discuss Uganda behind you too. We already know it's great to be Norwegian in Denmark, why don't we see how it feels to be Danish in Norway?" Denmark replied.

"I don't see what that has to do with us discussing Uganda. I think Iceland's in a lot of trouble. He went to visit the guy that tried to kill us over lunch and wanted to ask if you'd see if America has Uganda's number anywhere. I'm hoping he can help out. We certainly don't. To get you back, Sweden thought up a few ideas."

Denmark peered behind him at a stranger clothed in yellow, blue and red stripes offering him a box buried under inches of masking tape. Automatically, Demark reached down to grab it and shooed the person away as Norway continued. "We talked to King Europe and he agreed to send America a strongly worded e-mail warning him to stop or he'll have to tell him to stop again. Otherwise…"

Then Denmark lost track of the conversation by virtue of happenings around him. His cow chose that moment to loudly protest the extra weight on her, her sore legs, and the South American stranger flitting about her. So she mooed. She mooed stridently and vehemently and often and Denmark had no idea how to shut her up. Yelling didn't work. Neither did petting. The outburst had no point and no terminus.

"Is that a cow? What are you doing with a cow?" Norway inquired warily.

"Going for a ride." Denmark died inside, ever so slightly. Then came a long, long uncomfortable pause interrupted by the perpetual moos followed by Norway having a rite fit of giggles.

"Oh god. I'm sorry. I really am." He said breathlessly. "But that's…" He collapsed into another pile of laughter. "Hey Sweden! You'll never guess what he's doing!"

Denmark drew the logical conclusion that the conversation was effectively over and hung up. Then things got worse. That was Murphey's Law full in effect. As the stranger darted off, the cow spooked and lurched intensely to one side which caused Denmark to lose his balance and land face first into the parched soil. Then it got worse again. America picked that moment to fetch him. Mexico's reappearance already caused his good mood to crash and burn like the Hindenburg, couple that with the wailing cow and Denmark's latest acquisition and the situation looked bleak.

"What did you do to her?" America snapped, gesturing at the cow.

"I- um…" Denmark climbed to his feet and removed his hat, holding it to his chest defensively. "She just started…"

America dismounted, gave Applejack a few pats on her neck and glowered at Denmark some more. "And what's that next to you? That package? Where'd you get it?"

"Oh." Denmark had near forgotten about it but read the label. "Says it's from Colombia. My guess is he wants you to have it. You know what it is?"

America breached his own standard of conduct by aiming his revolver at the parcel from point-blank range and pulled the trigger. The animals jolted back a few steps and Denmark jumped behind America at the sonic boom. A cloud of white residue exploded outward from the box and floated off on the wind. It wasn't snow. Under such a sweltering sun and clear blue sky, it couldn't have been. America waited until the dust cleared and wheeled on Denmark, his voice a deadly calm.

"Do you have any idea what I do to drug traffickers?"

"Deport them?" Denmark asked.

"No." America said, replacing his weapon. "At this point, deporting you would be like giving a dog a treat for peeing on the rug. If I catch anyone with Colombia's imports, I send them to jail for at least seven years."

Denmark swallowed hard and backpedaled, but America kept pace with him and leaned in close with a devious smile spread across his face. "But I'm willing to forgive you if you help me get rid of him." He looked pointedly at Mexico.

But Denmark didn't want to harangue Mexico. He explained this while getting to his feet, raising his hands disarmingly, and backing surreptitiously into a patch of tall grass. He pointed out the man was only sleeping and that their time would be better spent riding off into the sunset until they hit Las Vegas. Then he tripped. It had nothing to do with the ill-fitting boots and everything to do with a person rustling around, previously hidden from view. Upon impact he stood up and good-naturedly introduced himself while Denmark looked up, bewildered.

"Hi." He said in a mousy voice, offering a hand to help Denmark up. "I'm Costa Rica. What's your name? It's great to meet you."

"Damn hippie!" America interrupted. For what seemed the gold standard of the day, America made a spectacle of loading a few more bullets into the cylinder but Costa Rica remained undaunted. Even Denmark relaxed. The showy display of power and recklessness had lost most of its mystery.

"You know violence isn't the answer. You don't need to point a gun at me, or Mexico or…" Costa Rica took Denmark's hand and pulled him to his feet.

"Denmark." America filled in.

"Right." Costa Rica continued resolutely and threw up the peace sign. "What you need is more flower power and less fire power."

A growl escaped from America. "What you hippie liberals don't understand that our money is best spent buying every child a gun and education drains the budget. Until you find me a soy-based alternative to protecting my yard, this is how it has to be."

"Oh America, we love you." Costa Rica wrapped America in a tight hug.

"And this is the way it always is." America hoisted Costa Rica's slight weight onto his shoulder. "He licks some poisonous frogs, comes up here, and sings songs from 'Hair'. Now go handle Mexico while I go put him somewhere."

While America rallied the animals and set Costa Rica down on terra firma, Denmark approached the scene of still life that was Mexico. Very, very still life. If the other country even noticed Denmark, he offered no overt indication. Instead he opted to snooze in the shade with his face hidden under a sombrero.

"Excuse me, sir. You need to leave."

Nothing.

"Do you speak English?"

Nothing.

"Dansk?"

Nothing.

"Are you deaf?"

Nothing.

A tap.

Nothing.

A harder tap.

Still nothing.

Denmark threw his hands up in sheer frustration. "Screw this. Better yet, I'll go screw your sis-"

Then Mexico snapped up with a roar and flung the sombrero like a Frisbee, revealing a flashy vinyl red, white, and green mask patterned like a fire to accent his ferocity. One, two seconds he spent glowering at Denmark, offering the other country no time whatsoever to think. Mexico lowered his head, flexed his arms, and charged headfirst at Denmark, who let loose a horrified shriek and turned tail to flee. But Denmark had everything working against him. The boots allowed for no leg flexibility which handicapped his already short stride and the panic flat-out paralyzed him.

Mexico caught him easily by a belt loop and hauled Denmark high over his head with a cry of "Patria, libertad, trabajo, y cultura!" then slammed him to the ground. Denmark rolled over to crawl away before Mexico executed his next move, his entire backside positively throbbing. Mexico danced in front of him so Denmark fell backwards and crabwalked as fast and as far as possible. Shock knocked all the logic out of him, so he continued his half-contrived escape plan and screamed breathlessly at intervals as Mexico prepared to do a running jump right on top of him. Then came blessed distraction.

"Hey, Señor Jalapeño! You want a _real_ wrestling match? You wrestle me!" It was America, expertly twirling a 50-foot lariat. Denmark nodded gratefully and scrambled to safety. So that's why everyone wanted to be in America's shadow. Insta-protection. Mexico waved Denmark off, focusing instead on his bigger and more capable target.

Once he reached a safety zone, Denmark relaxed his pace to a trudge and took frequent pauses to rub and arch his aching back. He learned the hard way that it was best to keep out of America's diplomacy missions. The battle cries from both combatants echoed for minutes, peppered with orders on both ends to stay away from the other's sister. Denmark ignored it though. He found Costa Rica petting their animals, exalting the benefits of wrestling- that it released happy endorphins that made both America and Mexico more peaceful in the long term, that it was so much better than using weapons. He didn't press the issue when Costa Rica traded him both sets of reins for Colombia's demolished package, explaining that he'd return it to the sender and hiked off.

After so long, America returned looking none the worse for wear but shaking from the adrenaline rush. "I think him and Costa Rica are going to head back down south now after that ass-whooping. You okay? He wasn't supposed to slam you around that hard."

Denmark flexed his shoulders and winced. "I'll live."

"Come on." He nudged Denmark to the cow's left side. "Let's go back. I'll give you a leg up."

As they ambled back to the barn, they lapsed into a companionable silence that Denmark felt compelled to break. "Hey America?"

"Yeah partner?" He said in impeccable southern drawl.

"Thanks for saving me back there. For a while, I felt like I was in a bad action movie."

"No… you weren't. Not yet, anyways. But if you want to be…"

"California?" Denmark asked.

"California's a really big place, but we make most of the movies in one town… I call it La La Land but its official name is Los Angeles. My sister's been up to some things, I've been meaning to check in anyways."

"Us? Be in a movie?" Denmark made no effort to hide his excitement. Oh boy! Movies! Action! Stardom! Explosions! Exclamation points!

"We'll see what she's doing but first..." America trained his cell phone camera on Denmark. "Sweden texted me and said he can't live without a picture of you riding a cow. Something about blackmail for later."

Denmark gripped the horn of the saddle until his knuckles turned white.

* * *

><p>Finland poked away on Åland's pilfered laptop, on a mission. He sipped from a half-empty coffee mug and intermittently added a fresh dash of homebrew. He wasn't 100% on the chemistry behind its effect on him, but understood through experience that it both woke him up and helped him sleep. It proved a good idea any time of day, but especially when prowling the Wild Wild Web for information that put tens of thousands of Euros at stake. Miraculously, Iceland remained alive through travails of falling off a waterfall and battling bad-tempered wildlife. What joy! What happiness! Whatever! As a result, his betting pool had dwindled significantly and Finland, from the start, had 19th his national reserve riding on Iceland making it home, but missing a kidney. To say succinctly, Finland came into possession of a ginormous pile of cash that he couldn't spend, couldn't give away, and might possibly be his. He'd let Iceland tell him:

**_Run for Your Life_**

_30 June 2011 19:60_

_It hurts to admit when you've made a mistake, but when it's big enough the pain only lasts a second. If it's even bigger, the pain pulses through you every second you're awake… slowly cracking your egg. That's what I've learned now. I'll explain…_

_Firstly, I can scratch 'go on safari' off my bucket list (1001 things to do before you kick it). Tanzania introduced me to his animals and even shared a couple of interesting stories about them. As it turns out, the pink elephant wasn't an illusion caused by climate-induced dementia. He and Kenya got tanked on palm wine not too long ago and painted a herd of the critters all the colors of the rainbow just so they could make jokes about pink elephants on parade. That same night, Kenya captured this lion that desperately needed to be removed from the breeding stock, he sold it on petfinder and shipped it out that same night. He didn't say much because he couldn't remember details, but he said it was a lion 'pining for the fjords'. A classic case of 'it seemed like a good idea at the time'. We've all been there. _

_I owed Tanzania for the entertainment and lodging so I offered to cook him dinner (unlike the rest of you, he wasn't afraid of my food). The plan was to prepare a fish dish with a dash of sugar for extra flavor. We went out fishing, but I abandoned ship the second we got to Lake Tanganyika (get it?) If you've been looking at your map, you'll know that's Democratic Republic of the Congo's border too. Seems easier to call him DRC at this point, wouldn't you agree? It's really no surprise that he's been keeping an eye on me and I fully expected to pay him a visit, but not like this! _

_Our initial meeting didn't go quite as I hoped. _

_When he saw me backstroking in the water, he paddled out to me. So I waved him down to see if he'd be kind enough to spare some fishing gear and, over Tanzania's protests, I invited him to eat with us. DRC had other ideas. They included throwing a net over me and pulling me to his boarder. Under water. That jerk. _

_The good news is he decided I'm very pretty and I'd make an excellent lucky charm. The bad news is he left me in the net suspended from a tree for three days because after I introduced me as my wonderful self, he retorted that he made the horrible mistake of thinking I was someone important. Between the jungle humidity and heat, I had more fungus growing on me per square centimeter than you'd find on a truck stop toilet. I would've been there longer save in the middle of night three, Angola snuck over to cut me free, commanded me to run away, and explained he helped me solely to annoy DRC. Thank Loki for him! I then escaped in a riverboat heading west with a chicken in case I got hungry and a radio to keep me sane. As I've gone on, I've been stopping off in villages I can't pronounce and dodging Ebola infected monkeys. All the while, I feel DRC only a few beats behind me. My latest and greatest plan is now to travel through the jungle until I reach Congo (Not to be confused with DRC. That tends to cheese both of them off big time. I overheard them get into a shooting match over it, so I know)._

_If you guys want to do me a favor, let Uganda know I'm floating around. He's pretty familiar with the territory and might be able to give me directions. It's pretty awesome when you get exactly what you want, isn't it? If I can survive this jungle trek, it'll be my supreme fling. I'll keep you updated. Hakuna Matata!_

_-Iceland_

Finland guzzled the rest of his liver killing beverage. So Iceland embarked on a journey deep into the heart of darkness. There were many things he didn't tell his friends about- like the stash of agaric mushrooms he occasionally split with Åland and his reindeer herd. Or this. For a brief second, he considering sharing his latest revelation in part because, this shit was gon' blow up big time.

* * *

><p><em>An: I feel compelled to explain my characterization of Costa Rica. Here is a country with no army, intent on preserving its rainforests with a population eating mostly plants. Or according to America- a hippie. Angola and DRC have also been locked in this perpetual tit-for-tat relationship centering around immigration and sharing of resources that leaves them both generally angry at each other. If you want to know more, feel free to ask me. Otherwise, I trust your Google-Fu._

_Finally, I owe a big thank you to Karalora for inspiring me to give America his favorite pony as she wrote in 'Most Important Question of our Time' and for reminding me that if Iceland's on safari, someone somewhere ought to discuss Uganda. _


	7. Hollywood Nights

For vastly different reasons, both America and Denmark agreed to take the circuitous route to Los Angeles. No deep philosophical rationale for America. Plain and simple as apple pie and baseball, he was having fun. The only confounding thing about it being America was plenty willing to drop his whole schedule for months and haul Denmark cross country in the name of positive international relations all the while scratching his head wondering how his unemployment rates could be so high. On the other hand, Denmark had a free, forced vacation on a brand new continent with a host who was, overall, eager to please. Therefore he put forth one small, miniscule, itty-bitty request- at least one weekend in Las Vegas.

It only became clear once they crossed into Sin City, that America had never been. He blamed his sister for the multihued freak show, exclaimed some things about never going so far west for a reason, and insisted the pit stop be kept G-rated. He mentioned the audience for a fanfic like this is tiny as is and making it a porno wouldn't win anyone over. Therefore they didn't get married, nor did they get (that) drunk, but they did lose a metric asston of money. Late into the first night (or early into the second morning, depending on your perspective) Denmark devised a plan to make up the lost cash, lest they end up stranded. In order to prevent this most unfortunate of scenarios, he said, he and America had _no choice_ but to sell their bodies to as many woman as possible.

To do so, they could make up two signs that say 'orgasm donor' and hit Las Vegas Boulevard until their pelvises were crushed. Try as they might, classy Vegas ladies just weren't into two guys on the street looking broke and regular.

So fast-forward a day or so and the boys were left playing the odds hitchhiking southwest through the vast desert plains. Denmark felt as though the heat were getting to him in the most literal sense of the phrase. His fair Nordic burned more easily in the desert than he ever experienced on his beach and twice within the hour he'd ran the distance across the highway pavement to chase a mirage lake.

America didn't fare much better. He declared they had languished in the heat long enough and would phone his sister to come pick them up.

"And you said you've got four seasons out here? If this is September, I'd hate to see July. We are going to die of dehydration before she gets here." Denmark fell backwards dramatically into a dune only to jolt back up once he discovered he landed rump first onto a blooming cactus.

"Yup! Four- hot, really hot, not _quite_ as hot, and pleasant but that one only lasts a month. This is only hot."

To kill some time, Denmark fished out his phone and with a few strategic finger pokes pulled up Iceland's latest escapade:

**_Everyone's Got Something to Hide Except for me and my Monkey_**

_4 September 2011 11:11_

_There are lots of laws dictating the natural world. Law of Tooth and Fang… only the strong survive… eat or be eaten… most importantly- Thou Shalt not Get Caught. And here's the damn thing about it. I was doing okay. I ate the chicken and learned to appreciate the finer rhythm of soukos music and dance on a moving boat all the while floating around bloats of hippos, past memories of elephants, through scourges of mosquitoes, and it was only when I encountered a troop of gorillas that the trouble began. _

_Those furry black balls of concentrated evil yanked me onto the river bank and bound me to a tree with vines while the silverback male interrogated me through a series of grunts and chitters. He must've decided I was a pretty stoopid animal for not saying anything back because he stormed off in a huff and returned with DRC. They gestured back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and I eventually got it through my head they were speaking in sign language. All about what to do with me. I guess I should be flattered. _

_Honestly, who the hell keeps scary black… things that are free to run around every which way attacking who they please and talk only to their owner? I also read somewhere these guys also eat lions. Why would anyone want a pet that freaky? What sort of crazy fucknut thinks things like that are cute and fun to play with? I bet their eyes glow orange in the dark, too. Bastions of hell, that's all those gorillas are._

_Really though, I lost my temper and flipped them all a sign of my own while explaining to DRC that he's just jealous of me and that's why he's being so rude. I told him that even though he's 15 degrees hotter than me (he does live on the equator, after all) I'm 100 degrees cooler than him. Long story short, he took offense. _

_So began my jungle jail adventure. I could write a kid's book about it from here: He hauled me back to Kinshasa and chained me in a sweltering concrete cube alone. I don't think my crime was fitting of the punishment. Worst of all, he only had one-ply toilet paper. _

_Congo came over to check in on me and play some cards (I beat him every time) and explained that if someone offered his brother a big enough ransom, he'd be willing to let me go. That I shouldn't worry too much yet because he and everyone else is reading the Magical Mystery Tour and someone surely will answer a plea for help. Here's what I wonder about that though… _

_You're all reading it and talking about it, but none of you ever answer my questions or comment! Do you even think about how much effort goes into this? Here I am taking my valuable time to post just so you're entertained and you guys can't find it in yourselves to say One. Single. Word. Maybe I'll go make a movie instead. It'll be easier and you might be more appreciative. _

_-Iceland_

His eyes went wide in horror the longer he digested the post. Denmark couldn't help but indulge this niggling little feeling that he and Iceland were engaged in a race to the bottom for prize of 'worst vacation ever'. On a hunch, he opened his e-mail too in order to alert his friends back home on the off chance they had yet to find the post themselves. Instead, an e-mail from Nigeria that inexplicably weaseled its way into his inbox and Denmark devoted his attention to that:

'_Greetings in Jesus' name! I bring you bubbly feelings of trustworthiness that fill you with warmth and relaxation as if you're getting a blowjob in a hot tub!_

_'Based on information gathered around the sovereign states of the world I have a 100% safe business proposal that requires your urgent attention! The 50 million princes living within my borders that are all best friends with Bill Gates and the sultans of Dubai endorse this._

_'My colleague has recovered a certified pre-owned human from the depths of the Congo rainforest. He is a 1944 model in perfect working condition and gently used for entertainment purposes only! We are asking 4.4 million Euro for him but price is entirely up for negotiation...'_

The message slogged on for about three ticks more, but Denmark read enough to get the gist.

He ran a sleeve over his forehead. "I don't think this could get worse. We're going to die out here before she comes by and now Iceland is-"

"It could always be worse," America interrupted. "You could have Ebola. Hey! Hey! There she is!" He spied a vehicle speeding towards them and bounced up and down in the middle of the highway, flapping his arms and crowing like a demented rooster.

Denmark employed this wonderful human reservoir known as common sense and hung out in the emergency lane as he squinted at the black Hummer with the license plate reading 'MYTOY'. "You sure that's her driving a Hummer? Seems like that wouldn't be her style."

The car careened across the median and made a quick about-face before it rocked to halt.

"Oh yeah," America crooned. "I'd recognize my four-wheeled baby from anywhere. My sister's only borrowing it because her pink Cadillac's in the shop. Now, once we to Los Angeles we'll see the Hollywood sign from at least six angles and ride the Santa Monica roller coaster until we puke!"

"Shotgun!" Denmark called and, through much duress, mounted the front seat in the same manner reminiscent of climbing onto the cow. It was only after the air-conditioning blew some of the life back into him did he notice America hadn't bothered to fight him for the front seat. Therefore, he and Sister America sat idling on the camel-tinted leather seats with 'Wannabe' by the Spice Girls blaring from the speakers. Ottawa dug four tiny, nail-laden claws into her bleached hair. He stared at Denmark with vacant, empty eyes, tilting his head in a manger that suggested there was fluid lodged in his brain. Denmark gave Sister America a flummoxed look and surreptitiously moved to crank down the volume. Lickety split she smacked the offending appendage away. "Don't you think this music is a little outdated?" He asked.

"What do you mean?" Sister America asked. "Don't you appreciate classical music? I thought you European guys were supposed to be cultured. Where is my brother?"

With a heavy sigh, Denmark took one for the team and picked his way back out of the gargantuan car and found America paralyzed, pinned to the pavement. Maybe the soles of his shoes melted. Then came a protesting, Hulk-esque howl. America angry! America go smash! And he did, right on his bumper and sobbed.

"Someone vandalized my car!" He bellowed.

"Omigod! I totally know." Sister America said from the driver's seat. Then in true sibling fashion, they took tandem deep breaths and spoke to the other simultaneously.

"Someone keyed my car!"

"Some slapped a 'Romney '2012' bumper sticker on your car and I _tried _to scrape it off with my keys but it just wouldn't come!"

"Now Denmark," America chose his words carefully. "I ought to warn you that this city is populated by these monsters called 'Demoncrats'."

"You mean Democrats." Denmark corrected and took hold of America's arm to gently guide him into the back seat.

"I know what I said. They're not very smart and live all over L.A. because it's the only city easy enough for them to spell." He shot a pointed glare at his sister. "And they don't like real dogs either." A real dog being defined as 'something that walks on a leash instead of riding in a pink purse and is too big to be beaten up by a spider'.

Hours passed, and everyone lapsed into gloomy silence as the Spice Girls sang on a loop. Sister America periodically garbled a few lyrics. The landscape rolled by beyond the road morphing from mountains and sedimentary rocks to palm trees and glittering skyscrapers. Denmark stared out the window and America watched him watch the road.

It was a dark and balmy night by the time when the scenery settled on something generically urban and Denmark's excitement waxed intense. The car combed the city, block by block, and gave him a front row view of lovely sites such as two-story town homes protected by white picket fences topped with barbed wire, grocery stores, the occasional surfing mural, gyms, and something called a 'Tommy Trojan' that America assured him was not a condom reference nor was there _anything remotely sexual_ about a man wearing only a helmet and skirt while holding a sword right near his crotch and to suggest anything otherwise might invoke the wrath of God herself. Therefore, Denmark voiced the obvious conclusion.

"This place is really boring." He said. "I thought we'd be movie stars. You know… ride Transformers, battle sharks with machine guns, greet Hollywood girls with tongue." He paused to look pointedly at Sister America and decided not to bark up that tree again. Not with those volleyball boobs staring him down and the girl's overprotective brother right behind him.

Sister America eased the vehicle up to the curb at the next block. "A lot of people here think that." She explained. "Most of the time they end up waiting tables."

It was well past midnight when they touched down back on the pavement and horrible realization struck America in the back of the head like a sledge when he took in his sister's confused expression. "We're lost, aren't we?"

"We are so not!" Sister America shot back. "It's impossible to get lost here." She pulled a GPS from her purse and discovered, much to everyone dismay, that it had a dead battery and the charger was MIA.

"We're not in Beverly Hills because the houses here aren't judging us and we're not in Compton because we're still alive." America stealthily peaked around the corner of a warehouse. "We can find someone to give us directions, I'll bet."

Then a rumbling emanated from somewhere. It didn't appear to be an earthquake (euphemistically called a 'good vibration'). Ottawa growled vaguely. Denmark took some time to survey the blackened surroundings- trash trimmed the sidewalks some old film shimmered in the streetlight and a howl reverberated without much conviction from under another car.

"What was that?" Denmark wrapped two arms around America and held on for dear life.

"Who knows? Probably a stray actor looking for work." America elbowed Denmark gently. "Stop that! We can only give each other man hugs- crotches can't come within six inches of each other." Without further discussion, Denmark took one giant step backwards but never released his hold. Easily, it functioned as an image that could be featured in 'Awkward Family Photos'.

"I'm going to investigate this strange noise. That's always the right thing to do in these situations." Sister America said with conviction She twirled her hair into a bun and utilized Ottawa's claws as an impromptu hair clip, ya know… so it wouldn't hit the gross sidewalk. Two glowing eyes glowered back at her and a set of fierce canines gleamed a frightening shade of white against the black. Then the creature sang in mournful howl.

"Crap!" She screamed. "It's a coyote!"

"What's that?" Denmark asked, perplexed.

"A type of dog." America filled in.

"Just a dog. Geeze guys," Denmark relaxed visibly to the point of leaning forward and dangling his arms parallel to his feet. "The way you are reacting, I thought it was something really dangerous- like a butterfly." A lanky paw swiped at them near a gutter.

"Run!" America tensed every muscle and gave Denmark a rough shove in the direction opposite the charging coyote. And run they did. As fast and as far as they could. They ran until Denmark dramatically declared himself exhausted, unable to continue on of his own accord. Then they stopped and America delivered a heartrending speech about everything he learned from his break off from England and Sister America chimed in about the Civil War and tied it neatly into a moral about the value of perseverance and Denmark called it stupid. Then America threatened to go on without him and Denmark got up and ran some more. Then they stopped a number of times and argued about where they were going, if anywhere. Then they walked aimlessly into endless mound of concrete until they spotted a cheapass motel to call it a night.

The room cost $14/hour (that's total, not each) and the concierge, who looked suspiciously like Austria, warned them they were welcome to check out any time they liked, but they would never leave. The room itself, once they discovered the key card only _sort of _worked and what worked better was kicking the door open. The burgundy carpet stank of dead roaches and old yogurt. Hunched in the center of the far wall as a single queen bed that still vibrated from the last hasty client. To top it off, there was a black and gurgling something spewing forth from the sink in the bathroom.

No one seemed to know what to say or do.

Denmark finally decided to say something to diffuse the tension.

"You know what that sink sludge reminds me of? Iceland's demons." He said. "He might miss him if he never gets back from Africa that is. Nigeria's trying to sell him to the highest bidder."

"It's a scam." America countered automatically. Unfortunately, he never grasped the fine art of subtlety and social finesse the same way as Denmark. "He's nothing but a liar and a thief!"

"That's just a stereotype!" Sister America snapped. "And anyone who stereotypes entire countries is nothing but a troll! Don't worry! We'll start an awareness group for him on Facebook. That'll save him for sure. Then we can do the same for the penguins living in the rainforest!" That's the magic of the Internet.

"She's right. That's the best we can do right now." America said.

"You're America!" Denmark snipped at both of them. "A country is up for sale and both of you are recommending a Facebook group to save him?"

"We have to handle this delicately." America said. "And we'll deal with it tomorrow. Let's get to bed."

"But is that a camera on us?" Sister America squinted at a buzzing electronic lens aimed directly at them.

"You did say we could be movie stars…" Denmark said helpfully, centering himself on the mattress and settling under the covers. America and his sister joined on either side of him not long after and he flicked off the light.

After a bit of shuffling and everyone settled down...

"Denmark, I don't mind sharing a bed with you but if you don't move your hand, I'm making you sleep on the floor." America said.

Denmark grumbled and rolled over.

* * *

><p>Approximately 9,000 km away, in a dacha along the Black Sea, sat Russia woke up early to do some reading on a sleek new desktop. No, he didn't peruse a digital copy of 'The Brothers Karamasov' nor 'War and Peace'. He'd reread both of them enough that it bordered on megalomania. Instead, he found some lighter reading about an increasingly reckless vacation that spanned nearly half of Africa. "Hmmmm, I guess we did all come out of Gogol's overcoat after all." He mused while stroking his Siberian tiger cub. From his tigers to abandoned military bases to the piles of propaganda he never got around to cleaning up everything about him screamed 'Hey! Hey you and you and you, and YOU hiding under your jacket! Over here! Lookee me! I'm still a world power and way funner than those other guys!' Subtlety was never really his forte.<p>

He and Iceland were indeed friends and his friend clear needed some assistance but… a thought fluttered and fell.

He really knew how to stir things up back in the day and still did if the opportunity presented itself. Russia lifted his ever-present vodka bottle to the ceiling. "To the never ending friendships between nations!" He toasted and smiled vastly and sipped it straight.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Here's your fun fact: whenever you hear music that sounds 'African', odds are you're hearing soukos music which has its roots in the Congo/DRC. Give it a listen and you'll see what I mean. Share with your friends too. They'll think you're awesome for knowing that. _

_Here's another one: Gorillas know sign language. They don't really eat lions, but there's a myth that some do.  
><em>

_Come back next time and let we'll see how things devolve...  
><em>


	8. To the Motherland!

Norway paced the perimeter of his bedroom, scrubbed his living room from floor to ceiling (and even managed to get the old fish smell out of the carpet), and in sum, spent the latter half of his afternoon ruminating like a champ. That's what happened though. One third of his social circle was definitively MIA for months on months and now his brother, well…

_**Paperback writer**_

_October 01 2011 15:00_

_Here's a joke for you- Norway, Sweden, and Denmark walk into a bar. Wait… you've heard that one. Here's a better joke- DRC doesn't walk into International Court for selling me to Russia! That one's only funny because it's true._

_He put me on craigslist under pets and Nigeria sent out a mass e-mail declaring me for sale. Don't you guys check these things? All I cost was 7500 Rubles and an earpod. What the hell does that even mean?_

_I didn't even find out who bought me until DRC packed me into a dog carrier and sent me (via ground shipping, I should add) to Siberia. When I got to my new home, Russia let me out and told me I was free to frolic about his beautiful taiga. He also left me behind an electric fence with a red and yellow sign warning me to 'Cоблюдайте дистанцию… or else!' and passed off some second-rate vodka and instructions to paint over any lingering red stars._

_I've tried appealing to China for safe passage, but he left up a sign stating the following: 'Fighting the Kung-Fu Panda Bear of the Wu-Tang Clan. BRB LOLZ! Luv China.' So I haven't seen him._

_North Korea turned out to be equally useless. I didn't mind that he wanted me to become a card-carrying member of the DPRK Friendship Association (benefits include automatic repatriation and lifetime passes to his Living Animal Museum where a dog is on display). I didn't even mind that he threw bits of matter conglomerate at me from the top of a concrete wall lined with razor wire after I told him 'Long live Kim Jung-Il'. Maybe I joked about it too soon._

_I did mind Afghanistan though. He said that during his Soviet days, Russia took all his POWs and held them captive in the state circus, where they performed in animal costumes. My guess is within the month I'll either be a bear on a bicycle or a suicidal novelist._

_There's a valuable lesson to be had here- not everyone can flawlessly roll with life's punches all the time. I'm not particularly into the idea of being annexed, so maybe a real rescue mission on your end is finally in order (not just a facebook group, you lazy slacktivists). Think it over and get back to me. In the meantime, I'm going west on the trans-Siberian railway towards Moscow so I'll be out of the danger zone before winter hits full force. Until next time, I'm on the road that's off the road._

_-Iceland_

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, nothing exciting was happening in the West. Denmark surrendered to America's logic (or lack thereof) and half-contrived lessons on how to be a better country. The only lesson he learned was everyone all over the world fit somewhere on the DSM-IV spectrum. Therefore, he didn't put up a fuss when America insisted they leave the Technicolor freak show that was Los Angeles for the Grand Canyon. Denmark only warned America there was a better chance of a unicorn crawling from his ass than of them embarking on a camping trip in the stratified gorge.<p>

In turn, America kindly took Denmark at face value when he claimed that all countries not part of the EU had the ability to fly by hopping from the edge of cliffs and flapping their arms. America damn near bought the lie out of curiosity alone and inched too close to the Edge of the World before Denmark yanked him back from the brink to send both of them toppling into the dust.

That was when Denmark's phone sang until he answered. It was Norway, pleading them for an intervention. He read the blog post aloud word for word. The boys listened with unprecedented politeness and reserve then ended the conversation.

"Russia expanded." America said, his voice a deadly, paralyzing calm.

Denmark puzzled it over. "Seems so."

"I can't have Iceland turn communist too."

"Please get out of the 1950's." Denmark said.

"He'd be better off dead than red!" America's face suddenly lit up brighter than a July 4th firework show over the Capitol dome.

"Please don't say you're thinking of bombing Iceland."

"Even better, Viking Dude, even better."

Let's share a montage moment here:

It's about as big a spoiler as 'Luke, I am your father' to say America just isn't Russia's fan. So when Iceland's latest entry diffused, America had something more to say. That something being a 15-minute long speech Denmark drifted in and out of listening to. When he bothered to tune in, he heard the word commie a lot, the phrase 'Freedom World Tour', and that if Denmark assisted him in this battle against Russian expansion he was free to go home.

…

…...

…...!

What?

"Can you repeat that last part?" Denmark said

"Every time you don't side with me the terrorists win?"

"After that."

"So let's go free Iceland?"

"Before that."

"If you help me stop Russia I'll consider you sufficiently educated and let you be your own sovereign nation again?" Of course it would come to this! Educating another country while embarking on an ill contrived liberation mission were a few of America's favorite things. Combining them would let him achieve a state of nirvana held sacred by Bodhisattvas.

What followed can best be described as a generic whirlwind of a plane ride and a happy reunion. Denmark greeted Norway with a full frontal tackle that floored him- literally and nuzzled him with such force it's a wonder he didn't leave bruises and then repeated the same on Sweden.

In this same reunion, Sweden made a point to give Denmark a proper apology and stupidly agreed to make up his blunder of Spanish Armada proportions to him any way Denmark saw fit. One day soon, he'd live it regret that. He'd wake up on a dreary winter day and Denmark would be bored and call in that favor. It would be a day rife with humor and peril and be a great fanfic all its own. However, this is not that story. America too, got caught up in the moment and wrangled the three for rib-shattering group hugs.

Norway celebrated by preparing a pot of coffee with lox as garnish while they set about a plan of action. First step on the agenda was a diplomatic mission to Russia. Based on the result, something more solid could be hashed out from there. So east they went.

* * *

><p>The five of them stood crammed in a huddle. Yes five, you counted right- the four aforementioned and Finland.<p>

That's easy to explain. Prior to Denmark's arrival, Norway called his best friends because panic loves company. In turn, Sweden got the news and shared with his violent, Russophobic boyfriend, again, because people share bad news in hopes of making it go away. Angry Åland is about as easy to ignore as a giant squid on the toilet so Finland deciphered the ranting and raving enough to draw the logical conclusion that whatever happened would ultimately be his problem. He just pre-empted it all and joined the crew.

That about covers it.

But there they were, five identical gazes fixed on Russia's cottage, centered in the middle of a fantasy style forest. A wooden miracle, small and unassuming, designed to keep him insulated during the harshest winters in the inhabited world. It boasted the same décor Russia had been fond of since the Middle Ages. Intricate swirls and circles hugged the windowsills and doorways, all of it an austere brown. For that extra-special flair only Russia was capable of achieving, the whole meticulously constructed heap stood a story off the soil bed on chicken legs.

"So go knock." Denmark said to no one in particular.

America threw his head left then right to crack his neck then heaved himself up the ladder. Sweden called to him in hopes of reminding him that the Cold War was over, the Soviet Union dissolved, and that they all had to deal with this guy no matter how poorly their diplomacy mission went. America nodded to him vaguely and thumped the larch.

Russia creaked open the door and grinned at his visitors. "I'm glad you could all come for my democratic party!" Russia slurred and threw an arm around America to yank him forward. So Russia was a little drunk. Is that a surprise? The others followed into the kitchen where the tiger cub romped with a dead flower on top of a flimsy bench.

"Is that?" Norway extended an open palm toward Russia's cat, his eyes shining.

"_Da_, her name's Mashenka. Want to hold her?" Russia said, scooping her up and dropping her lightly into Norway's waiting arms. Sweden, meanwhile glimpsed an onyx and marble chess set perched in the corner. "Do you play?" Russia asked. "I've been a big fan of that movie you made, where that crusader plays Death in chess?"

It took Sweden a long moment to process the reference. "The Seventh Seal? Thanks. I do a little bit, but I prefer checkers." He wandered over to a sizable world map tacked on the opposite wall and ran a hand over a Russian flag stickered on the Noяth Pole and a second one over Iceland- Classic 19th Century territorial expansion.

Russia performed a grand jeté to join Sweden by the map… and in his grace and artful self-expression promptly crashed to the ground. He had hit celebration mode, which translated into copious amounts of his favorite beverage and when he drank, he got sloppy. He lay on the floor facing the ceiling for a bit, overcome with a fit of giggles.

When he found himself again, he leapt to his feet to stand on point. "Oh dear!" He said with a start. "It's lunchtime." Russia proceeded to utter a list of some of his favorite foods- cabbage, kabobs, and pancakes. While everyone took the time to settle at the table, Russia snapped his fingers in an a-ha! moment and returned with six bowls of borsht and six glasses overflowing with clear liquid.

Before the meal could commence, he requested they all stand with their glasses to partake in an aperitif. "Now, we all know that drinking without a toast is the sign of an alcoholic." Russia began.

"Thanks! I've been really thirsty!" America said, downing half the glass in one go.

"Are you sure the soup is enough to offset… this?" Sweden held his glass at arm's length.

"What? I don't have beer. The only one who got it right was our dear friend Finland. Isn't that right?" Russia said.

Finland sneered vehemently but threw back the vodka nonetheless.

Russia led them all in a series of toasts, insisting that everyone make at least one because business could not be conducted on an empty stomach. To start, he drank to his heroes of old- the bogatirs who united the Slavs, Nicholas- the greatest of the Tsars, Fyodor the Feebleminded numbers one and two and Vladmirs Lenin and Putin. When he got so hammered that he lost his train of thought, Denmark picked up the slack.

"United we drink, guys! Cheers!" It was probably a Bad Idea to have the biggest lushes of the North plus America in the same room.

"Quiet." Sweden snapped at Denmark. "So the reason we came-"

"_Da, _your friend." Russia said, interrupting his drinking with a spot of solid food. "I'm so glad he's staying in Siberia. When it gets to be negative 20 degrees, he can crawl into an igloo to keep warm. At negative 100, Hell freezes over and I give him back to you without a fight."

"Are we going to see him again?" Norway asked, clearly distressed. "What do we need to do to get him back?"

"How about this… I really love playing games and am willing to throw you a bone." Russia waxed pensive for a few minutes. He picked up the onyx king from his chessboard and twirled it deftly between his middle and index fingers.

"Let me guess." Sweden said. "You're going to challenge me to a game of chess because you like that it's an embodiment of your ideals from the Soviet days. The back and forth dynamic reflects the dialectical history espoused my Marxism and you think it'll be fun to relive all that. Plus, you're really good at it."

The Russia bellowed with trenchant laughter that echoed through the house for a full two minutes. "Oh my no. We'd both know I'd kick your ass. Where's the sport? I don't know what moron would think it'd make a good story to reuse that trope." He applauded himself.

"Listen up!" America snarled and grabbed Russia roughly by his parka. The effects of an entire glass of vodka permeated his system and made him meaner than he initially intended. "We're not here to play stupid games. You free Iceland or I'll bombard Moscow with so much mustard gas that not even a lizard will walk there for 50 years."

"America, America." Russia singsonged. "We've been through this so very many times. You bomb Moscow, I bomb Washington, DC."

America froze and let lose a string of curses. "How about a compromise then? I take Moscow and you can wipe New Jersey of all intelligent life."

"There isn't any there." Russia said.

"Damn!" America said. "He's onto me. What's our next idea?"

"Is he joking?" Norway whispered to Denmark and Sweden. "I can't tell if he's joking."

Russia replied in all seriousness, offended. "What? Was I joking when I erected the enema monument?"

"Maybe?" Norway ventured.

Russia shook his head emphatically and crossed his arms. His smiled vanished with a quickness and patented Glares of Death were exchanged in every combination.

Finland snapped his fingers and all eyes fell on him. With painstaking slowness, he fished around in his pockets for a wad of Euros and dropped them on the table. He gestured an open palm to the currency and looked expectantly at Russia. The amount wasn't high, but the implication was clear. _Bribe?_ The look queried.

"Right," Sweden elaborated. "Finland started a betting pool. There's got to be millions in it."

"I don't care about money, I've got more than enough. Do you have anything else to throw at me right now?" Russia paused for a few beats. "Okay. You're welcome to have Iceland back if you get him out of my territory by November 7th."

"The date of the October Revolution… that actually happened in November." Sweden said knowingly.

"Your territory is the biggest in the world. This hardly seems fair." Norway added dully.

"The name of my game is to play. Either join me or I keep my new island." Russia said kindly.

There was a lot more back and forth, surprisingly with not one of them raising their voice because the vodka kept them all calm and slightly sleepy and Mashenka was a pleasant touch that lowered their collective blood pressure. Russia offered up a contract, which Sweden reviewed in a semi-inebriated state. It spanned nearly 40 pages in length, most of it pure crap. There were battles Sweden didn't recall actually happening and their respective anniversaries and a few anniversaries of anniversaries. However after page 29, section F, subsection 25, sentence 2, he found the pertinent information that stated clearly that Iceland could be retrieved assuming a search party removed him from Russia's territory within the stated time frame. If Russia reigned victorious, Iceland would be annexed as part of the Glorious Motherland, Shining Beacon of Hope for all her people, the Magnificent Russian Federation, etc, etc. Russia enjoyed making pet names for everyone and everything. He himself admitted he got carried away sometimes.

Terms and conditions clearly understood, Sweden signed their souls away on the dotted line. Russia stamped his signature. Copies were made and he bid them good afternoon. "Oh!" Russia said as he walked them to the door. "I should let you know that no one enters my territory for an extended visit without a visa. It takes about 60 days to get one. Once you have it though, tourists are welcome! It's not a trap."

Off they went, the eerie refrain of Russia humming his national anthem floating on the wind through the trees. It could've been the Soviet anthem too. He never bothered to switch the tune out. As they plodded back to Norway's, the sky clouded over ominously.

"So what's the new plan?" Denmark asked his friends as a whole.

They talked about it all the way back. America tossed out a lot of ideas involving bombs and guns while Denmark found creative ways each time to suggest those go in the 'maybe' pile. When that phase passed, America instead insisted that he and Denmark be the ones to travel deep into the heart of Russia. Norway surprised no one by volunteering to go along. This jibed well with Sweden, who would stay behind, keep tabs on Iceland's next moves, and supply the DNA Strike Force (as America named them) with directions.

"We're forgetting one thing." Norway said. "We never worked out how we're actually getting in. We don't have 60 days."

Finland pulled out a notebook, a flimsy dog-eared thing and a thin tipped sharpie. He poured over each letter, perfecting his penmanship as the crew watched his every move. Finland savored their anticipation. Then America had to ruin it all.

"Before we get too far into this, someone call Iceland and let him know help's on the way." He said.

Norway pulled out his phone and dialed Iceland. It was a long shot unless Iceland discovered an electrical outlet in a rubber tree, but any chance at contact was better than none. Two rings later, someone graced him with an answer.

"Bonjour, mon ami!" He spoke French, but that didn't make him Brother France. He called Norway a friend, but that didn't make the feeling mutual. It was a voice Norway had only heard once in his long, long life and even still that was once too often.

"DRC." He said dully.

"You'll have to forgive me. You know my name while I do not know yours." Payback's a bitch, isn't it?

"I'm sorry." Norway said. "You held my brother in jail, sold him on the black market, and now stole his phone. I really don't want to talk to you right now. The only thing that makes me feel better is knowing Russia seriously ripped you off."

"Did he now?" DRC's voice reeked of suspicion. "He's worth more than 7500 rubles?"

"I'm hanging up." Said Norway.

"I'm coming back to collect my merchandise!"

It was a good they weren't all in one room. It would've been WWIII. North Korea and Nazi Germany didn't need to be involved, neither did Iraq or Afghanistan. Democratic Republic of the Congo was probably sad to have missed so much of the action and Norway would've gladly paid out his entire national reserve to return everything to status quo. Had France been nominally involved, she would've tilted her snub nose pertly to the sky and stated, "Vous êtes fucked."

They all heard the conversation. They knew what they were in for and they, for the time being had no choice but to ignore the new layer of trouble. Finland let the sun catch each of them in the eye until they focused back on him. Finally finally he turned the note toward his friends and relished their expressions as it traveled from hand to hand.

"So, what you're saying to distract Russia so we can sneak in is…" Sweden started.

Finland stopped him with a few solid taps on the corner of the notebook.

_Go go retarded lion._

* * *

><p><em>AN: I touch on enough here that warrants explanation (especially most of Russia's behavior and mannerisms). Feel free to ask if you have questions, otherwise kick back and enjoy the story._

_I should also add this chapter was screaming for a Kony 2012 joke somewhere but I couldn't fit it gracefully. You're welcome._

_This is going to get worse before it gets better, but you already knew that._


	9. The Road to Nowhere

Ludwig Wittgenstein famously wrote 'If a lion could talk, we would not understand him.' The statement didn't apply to this particular lion, though. If _this_ lion could talk, it might shoot back some garbled Lolcat speak best summed as 'I can haz hockeypuck 4 nomz?'

They couldn't help it. They knew they were being horrendously, unimaginably rude especially to something that carried the label of 'special', but they _honest to god _could not help it. Four nations stared agape. Denmark pinned himself to Norway's summit and leaned forward over his head to approach the thing without the need to actually get closer to it.

"I-I don't understand." Sweden sputtered. "Norway's lion is a painting. My lions are two statues." He trimmed them for life altering events such as Eurovision and hockey games.

"And my three I saw after eating some bad mushrooms and I wanted to match the rest of you." Denmark added.

Then there was Finland, waggling his eyebrows and flashing his pearly whites; in his hand he lightly gripped a thin chain encircling the neck of the thing. In his other hand, he held a hockey stick to keep it at bay. Åland flanked him, just in case. The lion didn't appear to care. It lay there, calm and stately in all its dignified retarded lionhood, tongue limp out the side of its mouth, drooling.

"And you think this will distract Russia long enough for us to sneak into his territory? What will it do?" America fired.

"Not sure. It's a retarded lion. It does whatever it wants." Åland said.

"But why? Where'd it come from?" Denmark wound his fingers into Norway's hair and shifted his weight to avoid toppling them over. The lion chewed its own paw.

Åland shrugged. "We bought it off Kenya and Tanzania one night after drinking too much of Finland's brew. What can I say? It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Norway cleared his throat, partly to hide his own surprise, partly to dispel some awkwardness. "Can I pet it?"

"I really wouldn't." Åland nudged it to the left with his stick. "It _is _a retarded lion."

"Does it bite?" Norway tried again.

Finland and Åland blinked at the other. "Hopefully." Åland finally said.

Sweden however, had higher concerns plaguing him. "How the hell did I not see this before? I'm at your house enough."

Finland made a sound that wasn't quite a sneeze and doubled over.

"How would you have?" Åland said. "It lives in a pen out back and we feed it a bucket of fish heads three times a week. It escapes a lot and mostly goes to Helsinki to lick windows."

"There's a sword in its head!" America said. "How is it even alive?"

Åland shrugged again. "Hell if I know. Do I look like a felinetologist?"

"Can we quit calling it it. It has a name!" Norway chided.

The Suomis shared a high five. "Damn right it does." Åland said.

"Ruotsi." Finland said.

Sweden puffed out his chest and expressed thinly veiled indignation. "No more dumb questions. We're wasting time. So…" he appealed to his boyfriend for conceivable next steps. Ruotsi rolled over on its back, taking care to keep its head elevated and vacillated in cosine wave fashion.

"So we're going to pack it into a box, drop it on Russia's door and… give it a hockey puck, I guess. We'll just see what happens." Åland poked the lion's flank. It politely heeded its owner and lurched onto its feet.

Denmark dropped off Norway and landed in a crouch, gazing east toward Asia and through the first needle eye of winter. He licked his lips in anticipation, already tasting his freedom. The flavor reminded him of undercooked shrimp.

Finland squinted through a set of binoculars and took a few practice swings to track his trajectory. When he had things nominally in order, he narrowed his eyes in what can most accurately translated as 'damn kids, get off my lawn!' and lobbed a hockey puck at each of their heads until they ran off.

* * *

><p>Russia paced the crate long enough to pound the earth in a nearly perfect circle like racetrack for toy poodles.<p>

'_To Russia, with love.'_ The accompanying note said. Nothing suspicious there.

Based on the timing of the package's arrival he _sort of figured_ it was a trap. He knew it wasn't a bomb because the box had air holes and he knew it wasn't a mechanical killing machine because one of those would have shredded him to kielbasa filling by now. From the distance sounded a singular _clap_ followed by a hockey puck skidding into his foot.

"You missed!" Russia shouted to Finland. "Though I'll say this is better than bullets. If you'd like to challenge me to a hockey match, you're more than welcome. It could be fun. Winner keeps Karelia!"

Concurrently in the deep dark box, a dim light flicked on in a dim beast's head at dim recognition. At that sound, it grew suddenly fidgety and anxious.

Russia raised the hockey puck in a futile threat as a tawny claw punched through the crate and groped at the air. Then came another! This one a mechanical, robotic feline leg. Then a third paw! Then a forth! Then the whole enclosure tipped on its side and the four legs ran. It wasn't a rhythmic graceful run like the glorious beasts Iceland frolicked with in chapters previous. It was more a series of lurches and stumbles, as if the creature moved one leg only to forget it still had three more. Russia stood stunned while the lion exploded this way and that and finally slammed itself free.

The lion had room in his brain for only two thoughts to swirl around at once. Oftentimes, they centered on protein and sunlight, sort of like a pitcher plant. In this instance, it focused all available brainpower firstly on the fuzzy wuzzy human (not quite as fuzzy as Canada, but the ushanka and long beard were tipping points) and secondly on its chew of choice said human possessed.

Russia bolted through the Karelian forest away from it. According to any survival TV show or book, this is the dumbest thing one can do when faced with such a predator. The lion gave chase once instinct took over in full force, running in a stinted version of a rocking horse canter. Russia made the grievous error of looking back to see how fast the lion ran. He promptly lost track of what lie in front of him, fell into a ditch and the lion caught up with ease and chomped down on the hockey puck and, by extension, Russia's arm.

Pain wasn't the issue. It didn't appear to have teeth, if it did; it hadn't a clue how to use them. Reclaiming his arm though, proved a greater challenge. Eventually, the lion quit biting him and settled for lying on top of him grooming his hat and beard. If Russia so much as made a move to push it off, the lion made these ghastly gurgles in the back of its throat. So Russia could do nothing but sit and scream and suffer as three figures stole through his woods.

_Many hours later…_

Russia lay on his back on a bed of pine straw with a soft, warm furry blanket enveloping him from beard to toe. A comfy 120-kilogram blanket that licked at his hat with a sandpaper tongue and stared at him with a tawny shaded lazy eye that never fully closed with its owner blinked. If he so much as hinted at escaping, the lion conked him upside the head with the handle of its sword. With no hope of Russian to the intruders any time soon, he decided to plan some alternative action. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and scrolled through his speed dial list starting at the bottom.

"Hey Ukraine, you have to do something for me. I promise it's not to beta read my Tetris fanfiction this time… don't dare sigh at me like that! You still owe me for leaving the Soviet Union!"

So Russia explained ad nauseoum the state of his entrapment, the terror of his trespassers, and then asked his favor.

* * *

><p>They didn't quite get how Sweden did it, but he did. Somehow he fashioned a perfectly functional satellite headset with crystal-clear reception that he used to direct them through Russia's infamous and unforgiving northland. Norway speculated that maybe Sweden channeled the magic of old and America settled on Sweden being a huge nerd. Denmark didn't have an opinion. He was hardly aware there was a conversation at all because he had the headset and Sweden, he learned, got drunk on power when he played the voice of god. Is that a surprise?<p>

"_Welcome to the stunning and charming White Karelia adjacent to the White Lake surrounded by glorious white tundra! Don't get too excited though because the only colors you'll be seeing are mud brown and vomit green!" _Sweden boomed into the headset. "_Why Finland ever wanted it is something I'll never understand. It's a giant swampland with craters of water to break it all up. If you'd like, I can play you the soundtrack to Swan Lake to help set the mood." _

Denmark removed the headset and held it at arm's length like a misbehaving child. He offered it to his companions. "One of you take him. I've had enough of pushy countries yelling in my ear." He unambiguously turned the evil eye on America.

"Hey! I don't yell!" America shouted. "I just talk passionately!"

Norway donned the headset and almost asked for directions, but a sonic boom far in the distance cut him off. America made a row about Russia dropping a nuclear weapon right on top of them and forced the other two to duck and cover, just like the nuns taught him growing up. It took only a few seconds to clear up the confusion. The first tip off being that the surrounding air temperature didn't rise millions of degrees.

Norway chanced a look up first only to see a steely gray sky cut horizontally by a stripe of black smoke. "The hell?" He asked, summing up the general sentiment.

"_Oh! That smokey trail in the sky you just saw? I can explain that. The good news is that Iceland updated_. _The bad news is he got derailed. Wanna know how he'll take off next, hm? I'll read it to you in full just so you get my pun._" Sweden said.

_**Ask Me Why**_

_October 13, 2011 12:34_

_As a wise man once said, travel is only glamorous in retrospect. Remember that wiggly parasite from Victoria Falls? I think it migrated and laid eggs in my brain. I can't move as fast or think as clearly and I'm seeing lots of strange things. _

_I couldn't afford a ticket on the Trans-Siberian Railway. I waited until the train pulled out of Vladivostok and jumped on the blue caboose only to find an accordion playing crocodile who introduced himself as Gena already up there. _

_It's been said people go insane on this long and tedious trip because the landscape's drab and there's nothing to do but drink… and that's before winter sets in and things get really depressing! I didn't have enough time to go halfway nuts before some old hag in a top hat hurled me off the moving cart. _

_I the fall must've knocked me out (no concussion this time, thankfully) because when I came to, Mongolia and a horse were hovering over me. I asked for some travel funds (or at least to borrow his horse for a few kilometers), but he said change only comes from within. _

_A Buddha in training, that's what this guy is. I was about ready to stick a few banana peels along his path to enlightenment, until he suggested I walk for a few days until I find Kazakhstan. Apparently, he's cleaning up Baikonur Cosmodrome and might be willing to lend me a rocket._

_Time to take off on a wing and a prayer!_

_-Iceland_

"He won't die from flying in a rocket, right?" Norway asked, pleading.

"Correct. It's the crash that'll kill him." America answered helpfully.

Right on cue, an explosion sounded somewhere in the distance.

"We are in the middle of nowhere, my brother's somewhere in a pile of space rubble, and there are no witnesses for anything Russia does to us now! It can't get any worse!" Norway said.

Denmark jumped and gripped his hair. "Don't _say _that." He gasped. "You just invited a ton of trouble. Now, you're responsible for anything bad that happens!" Then, it started to snow. It wasn't any sort of magical snow experienced on Christmas Eve in Central Park, where ice crystals floated gently down adding a pleasant ambiance that would put them in the mood to shop and drink coco. No, this snow was probably poisonous and carried a brown tint in each impeccably crafted flake. "See what you did?"

So Norway was dead wrong. Things could've been a lot worse. At least it was only snow- not radioactive golf ball sized hail. Had they shown up any closer to a bona fide Russian winter, instead of being dead wrong, they would've been plain old boring dead.

"_Don't get excited."_ Sweden said. _"Just get to the highway and head south. There you should see a statue of Lenin with his ass blown off and parked next to it you'll find a blue jeep with a full tank of gas and keys waiting in the ignition. Now hurry before you all freeze."_

The boys found their senses and walked the main road until they found the statue Sweden described and exactly as how he described it- a life-sized copper casting of the great Bolshevik leader minus his ass, but the car was nowhere to be seen. Norway pointed out as much.

"_Hm." _Sweden went. _"Okay, I guess I can't do that, then. Make a car materialize, that is._ _Just take the two foot express to Moscow."_

"The two foot express?" Denmark repeated.

"_Walk!" _Sweden yelled. Now it was Norway's turn to remove the headset and pass it to America. _"Move your lazy asses before Russia catches up with you! The third Rome awaits!"_

* * *

><p><em>An: I try to keep the vague jokes to a minimum (sometimes), but Iceland's blog entry demands explaining all around (it's a bit of a challenge to work within the established confines of popular central Asian stereotypes). Gena the Crocodile is one of the main characters in 'Cheburashka'- a stop-motion Soviet cartoon that infiltrates pop culture all over the country and remains a Russian animation staple. Kazakhstan is the location of the Baikanour Cosmodrome which was the heart of operations for Russia during the space race. It's also where Yuri Gagarin launched. And Mongolia, half the population is Buddhist and it rises annually. _

_Next chapter's the finale and it's about damn time! Wouldn't you agree?_


	10. Capital Offense

America howled in a fit of exhaustion and utter sorrow. He fell to his knees and threw his hands skyward. "We haven't eaten in ages! If we keep going on this harsh and unforgiving terrain we'll have to resort to cannibalism to stay alive. I couldn't possibly make the hard choice of which one of us gets eaten. We'll need to draw straws to see who dies so that the others may live."

Denmark made an annoyed growl and gave America's ribs a soft nudge with his foot. "What the hell are you talking about? We had breakfast four hours ago."

Denmark spoke Truth. A charming little group of babushkas found the weary and hungry travelers traipsing the tundra. In the way of grandmothers, they dragged the boys into their cottage and stuffed them with all manners of lovely food explaining in broken English and Udmurt it was a 'party for everybody'.

"I couldn't eat that healthy crap they served us! And they told me I had to cook my steak and eat it with a fork and knife as if I'm some like of fruit!" America said.

"Maybe a break wouldn't kill us." Norway said. "America, if you're hungry I think I've got a chocolate bar you can have." He began to rummage around in his pack.

"I don't believe what I'm hearing!" Sweden yelled into America's ear this time. "You keep moving or I will do something horribly, unspeakably painful."

"Like what? You're all the way in the Swiss Alps!" America fired back.

The color drained from Norway's face and Denmark shrank back behind him. The stress became palatable and the two Scandinavians cringed at the sour taste. America, however, felt none of it. "… Do your worst." He hissed into the microphone.

Some, they say, get killed in the struggle for mastery and power…

"_Challenge accepted._" Sweden said.

* * *

><p><em>30 minutes later…<em>

"_… and you've just heard 'Caramelldansen'!_" Sweden said with sickening cheer. "_Before that, I played 'Caramelldansen'!_ _Coming up next is one of my favorite songs called 'Caramelldansen'. After that comes 'Caramelldansen'. And later this hour will be-"_

"Let me guess. Caramelldansen?" America asked, he still sounded strong but to Denmark and Norway it was painfully clear that his resolve was cracking. They themselves were beyond help, already reduced to sniveling messes.

"_Caramelldansen- the Speedy Cake remix! I could listen to that song for hours. Can you? Because I could be convinced to play Aqua instead if get back to your mission._"

Norway took off running first, trailed closely by Denmark, and America, by virtue of his desire to die anywhere but in Russia's territory, took up the rear. Somewhere else, Sweden laughed like a super villain and did a victory dance by swinging his hips from side to side in time with campy Eurobeat.

* * *

><p>The flurry of problems kicked off somewhere in the Zamoskvorechye District of Moscow.<p>

It was dark. It was dirty. It was bleak. How very Russian of Russia. Perhaps most discomfiting, it was quiet. Too quiet. Even for a second world concrete jungle on the brink of winter. It would take three idiots abroad not to notice and focus on something completely innocuous…

"Guys," America spoke first. He shimmied uncomfortably away from a handwritten sign reading 'Хочешь реальный мужчину? позвоните Туркмению!' Somehow, all the words in spite of their differing lengths and characters, managed to all look alike to him. "Can either of you read this damn moon language?"

Denmark squinted at the thing Russia dared to call an alphabet. "No wonder all he does is sit around and chug alcohol. If I had to stare at this every day…"

"_You_ use the Roman alphabet and all you do is sit around and chug alcohol." Norway said to him. Denmark only shrugged. "More importantly, we should've hit some type of trouble by now. Do you guys get the feeling we've been forgetting something?"

"Trouble?" Denmark squeaked. "What kind of trouble? At this point, it should be as simple as finding Iceland and getting the hell out of here."

"You know… trouble. He's right." America's hand went to the gun at his hip but to the immense relief of the other two countries, he left in its holster. "A gun cart drawn by bears… an army of matryoshka dolls… zombie Rasputin… something…"

And isn't that always how trouble starts, by inviting it in?

"_SHIT!_" Sweden screamed it right in America's ear, loud enough for Norway and Denmark to hear too. "_Behind you!_"

Our heroes screamed in cacophonic harmony and wadded up in a semi-defensible cluster. America gripped his gun, Norway brandished his fish like a flaccid, floppy sword and, Denmark waved a beer bottle menacingly, ready to clobber the next thing that moved. They held their desperate defense only to be accosted by…

Nothing but a brisk and refreshing arctic breeze.

And Sweden laughed uproariously. "_Seriously. Chill out. It's not like Russia's going to slash and burn his own city and shoot you from behind, not these days. Now for the last time, go get Iceland. He's in Red Square at St. Basil's Cathedral. I read the writing on the blog_:

_**Back in the USSR**_

_November 07 19:17_

_Driving a rocket is almost as good as skydiving. After takeoff, I lurched upwards, performing a full-fledged somersault much to the delight of potential onlookers. So the pattern continued much like a tangent line complete with headlong vertical drops where I'd pound, grab, twist, or pull something that temporarily brought me out of harm's way. _

_And I did it all by steering with my left foot. And then I crashed in some abandoned missile base. Unfortunately, I can't report any Hollywood quality explosions. Sad. _

_I've been in Moscow since 19:17 and no enemy's been seen. But I've seen plenty else. Did you guys know Moscow's one of the most expensive cities in the world? I think most of the money goes into subway stations made of marble… or maybe, like beauty, what's on the surface is what really counts. Russia constructed seven buildings that all look exactly alike to break up an otherwise flatlined skyline. And who says Soviet architecture isn't creatively and awesomely beautiful? _

_The only thing that looks __**really**__ different is that church. You know which one I'm talking about. You've seen it everywhere. It's the gingerbread church with peppermint stripes and pearl onion domes and it's named after an herb, I think. Anyone else getting hungry? _

_-Iceland_

And while they listened to Sweden, that's when Russia made his reappearance. Largely, his encounter with Finland's mess of a lion left him unharmed but signs of struggle were still present in the form of tan fur visible especially on the white of his flag. He looked about as angry as a rabid reindeer on December 26th and brandished a tiny lead box with a radioactive hazard trefoil plastered on every side.

"Ukraine came over _entirely of his own accord_ and lured the lion away with a flower bouquet. And then gave me this to use on you guys!" He gave the weighty container a shake.

"Uranium?" Denmark guessed.

"No, but good try. I told Ukraine during that whole 'Chernobyl thing' he'd be safest hiding under his desk. Really it's his own fault for listening to me. He should've known better by the 1980's. That's the thing about nuclear power. It's great when it works but if it doesn't… watch out!" Russia giggled but immediately regained his composure.

"Pffffft." America taunted. "You're going to shower us with radiation? If you do that, you'll just give us superpowers and we'll kill you faster!"

"Shut up! This is going to get really dangerous…" Norway grabbed each of his companions by their shirt collars and stepped backwards.

"You thought you were all so clever with that lion. Well, let me introduce you to a pet of my own!" Russia cracked open the box to reveal a miniscule black dot that buzzed right for them. "Now pardon me while go I find my new island."

It was all probably karma for all those Viking invasions from back in the day. They paid rapt attention to the small force that flitted about Denmark's head. Denmark swatted at it, but never hit the interloping insect.

They were experiencing a close encounter of the first kind with Russia's most formidable predator. Tigers and grizzles couldn't shake a rapacious claw at this guy, who rivaled the size of a small aircraft and deemed Denmark's forehead to be an ideal landing base. It was a durable little vampire of the north fortified by radiation. Denmark bolted to the other side of the street with an ear-shattering wail. "Oooooh shit! There is a Chernobyl-grade mosquito on my face. This is just like my nightmares, the only thing missing is that damned ghost moose!"

Norway gave chase, stilled his jittery friend, and gave the bug a flick that should have sent it sailing into the nearest wall. But that's just the thing about Chernobyl mosquitoes. Russia probably made some pact with the winged demons where they agreed to intimidate unwanted intruders so long as he gave them the entirety of Ukraine's territory to breed and feed.

"Stop! I want to eat!" It buzzed.

Denmark squealed again, stumbled backwards, and crabwalked until he crashed into a wrought iron fence topped with a double-headed eagle to distance himself from the insect, but it stuck to his head. "Jesus fucking Christ in a king sized bed! It talks! Kill it! Kill it now!"

"Kill it with fire, you mean! Pardon me while I whip it out!" America pulled his revolver from its holster and aimed right at Denmark's forehead and removed the headset with his free hand to toss in Norway's general direction. "Norway, you hurry and hunt down Russia. It's dangerous to go alone! Now take this!"

"Didn't you hear me? I said to stop it! Lemme eat, jerkwads!" Not only did the mosquito speak, it mastered slang.

They all heard, but more importantly they didn't care. Overall, it could've proved a useful ally. It probably knew the lay of the city and could've given them a few more clues of what they were in for.

Something about the situation made Norway really, really uncomfortable. Something about a rootin', tootin' trigger-happy superpower with a weapon a hairsbreadth away from his best friend's head gave him pause.

"Alright little buddy, whatever you do don't make any sudden moves." America said to Denmark.

America pulled back ever so slightly on the trigger, Norway knocked his arm aside with his fish, and the bullet instead sailed through a store window leaving a spider web crack in its wake. Denmark tolerated this all with uncharacteristic poise- passerby would only think he was being crucified judging by the volume and duration of his shrill cries instead of something much worse… like a bug landing on him.

As usual, it was Norway that shut him up, but instead of the conventional method he did it with a fish to Denmark's face. The mosquito made some pained whistling noises that could've been more speech, but smacking it with a large halibut effectively neutralized it. Norway poked it a few times to ensure it was too stunned to do any real damage… because one can never really kill a Chernobyl mosquito.

And high fives were shared all around. Then Sweden ruined it.

"_Don't celebrate. Quit Stalin, you're almost there!"_

* * *

><p>Once they made it to Red Square, it was Norway who spotted the sparkly island nation first, lying supine against a sprawling expanse of meticulously laid brick either asleep or unconscious, but definitely not his energetic self. The path to him was disconcertingly clear and quiet. All quiet on the Eastern Front, if you will. That little niggling Norway experienced before returned in full force. He gave his head a shake to dislodge the dust bunnies and grabbed the headset's microphone. "Sweden," he said. "You're the smart one. What the hell am I forgetting here?"<p>

"_Not sure. I feel like I should warn you about something so… consider yourself warned."_ Sweden said.

Norway took a few experimental steps towards Iceland, shot one worried look at his companions who stood glued back to back, on the lookout. Unbeknownst to the present four, a figure positioned high on an onion dome of St. Basil's cathedral snaked around to face them and opened fire.

Then it all happened at once. No hyperbole necessary.

Firstly, Norway collapsed in a spray of red. Denmark screamed and rushed to his fallen friend. He stopped short when two more shots landed squarely against his face. Not only was he not dead, he was barely hurt. Norway discovered the same and the nations swapped confused looks and dabbed at what appeared to be only red paint.

"Sorry!" The voice boomed from the top of the cathedral. "I thought you were Russia! It's not my fault all you Europeans look alike!"

"_DRC! That's who you've been forgetting, Norway. Can we call him the Black Death or would that be inappropriate? I'm trying to think up a better nickname than Tarzan. You might wanna think up a way to get rid of him." _Sweden said most helpfully.

At the other end of the Square but what might as well have been the other end of the world, Russia ran into a brick wall called America all the while demanding to know who had the gall to barge in and literally paint his square red.

Iceland sat up at the commotion, removed his sunglasses, and scratched at an invisible smudge.

Lucky for him, Denmark and Norway reached him first. Before Russia. That was very important. After tangoing with jungle-grade parasites, being hunted by gorillas, auctioned to Russia, and traversing two continents in full, Iceland didn't seem to be in fighting form. His sparkles carried a yellow-brown tinge. They didn't seem him walk, but he probably had a limp. But most importantly, he was alive. Yup. Iceland was just that awesome.

"I… think I'm ready to end the Magical Mystery Tour and come home." He said to neither of them in particular, dazed.

America joined them soon after, with Russia slung over his shoulder, neutralized and outnumbered.

"Hey DRC! Russia's right here!" Denmark shouted.

"Good!" The African country shouted. He slung the paintball gun over his back and descended from the roof. "Perhaps if you're laying claim to Iceland, I can take Russia instead?"

"Hold on a second. If you take Russia we'll just have to do this all over again but in the jungle." Norway said. "We're all sane, rational countries on the world playing field, can't we come to some agreement?"

"How about a bribe? You pay me off, I'll go back home." DRC waggled his eyebrows hopefully.

Denmark took the headset from Norway and worked some quick magic. "Hey Sweden? Remember when you said you owed me for convincing me I had Ebola and starting this mess? I'm calling in that favor." Sweden whimpered on the other end. "Get those millions of Euros we bet on Iceland off Finland and give it all to DRC." Sweden growled fervidly at the other nation but in the end, agreed.

"God!" America exclaimed. "Look how dirty Iceland looks! Africa's such a dangerous country. I'll never visit."

Iceland adjusted his sunglasses and jabbed a finger at America. "You know, some people think that Africa is a _continent_!"

And DRC laughed. "Call me whatever you want. I don't care! With that kind of cash, I can buy a bulletproof Lexus to drive around the jungle!"

"So are we done here, then? Can we all finally go home and call it the end?" Norway said.

"One more thing before we part ways." America fanned out a stack of brochures for everyone to grab. "Here, everyone take one Just in Case. Especially you, Russia. DRC, I'm looking at you too." :

"_Dictator got you down? Ask me about my 'Regime Change Special'!_" Russia read while lifting his eyebrow.

"_Two for one deal going on now!_

_I put the new guy in power AND if my choice is just as oppressive as your old tyrant, I'll install your next leader free of charge. _Really, America?"

"I'm always here to help!" And America smiled from sea to shining sea.

* * *

><p><em>An: It's very much worth noting that in Eurovision 2012, (which you've hopefully read the comic and seen the videos for by now), Russia was represented by Udmurt women who sang in their native tongue. Udmurt culture just happens to be one of my favorite things about Russia. Needless to say, I'm beside myself the Udmurts finally got their spotlight. I strongly recommend learning anything and everything you can about them. __There's your public service announcement. Moving on…_

_This story is not the best representation of my work. Its flaws are ample and many. It's hard to follow and turned out to be more nonsensical than I ever intended. Many times I've considered taking it down but will not for the following reasons: SatW stories are sparse as is and my ultimate hope is that the more that's shared, the more others will be inspired to write. I don't know how many more ways I can encourage you all to write and post. It's excellent practice (much like this story was for me). _

_It's also the first SatW fanfic I plotted almost exactly a year ago. Back then I didn't have an idea of what a monster it would turn into. All I knew was that when one of my best friends forwarded me the comics, I'd someday share a story involving Russia and America. Somewhere in there, that original plot got lost and I thought 'Hey! I know what this fandom needs! A story involving, Russia, America, and a bunch of original characters headed up by the Democratic Republic on the Congo!' The mind works in mysterious ways, let me tell you… _

_More importantly, it seemed like the perfect chance to capture my favorite part of the comic- the political and cultural quirkiness that is our planet. It's also been a grand fun time crafting personalities for the countries not in the comic (my personal favorites ended up being Zambia and Costa Rica) and a great way to learn about places I, frankly, never gave much thought to before all the while keeping the whole thing playful and delightfully absurd. _

_**That**__ being said, some things bear repeating- I owe a great thank you to Karalora for prodding me onwards when I complained 'I don't think I can finish this', always answering the ubiquitous question: 'Is this joke too far?' which I literally asked her with a number of lines from the first chapter onwards, and basically for putting up with me in general. _

_Just as importantly… feedback! I'm soliciting it! Reviews will be rewarded in the same manner as a donation to a nonprofit- with a heartfelt thank you and the knowledge that you did right. _

_Thanks for reading!_


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